


Darkshines

by maxcellwire



Category: Muse
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The recent accidents in Boston are instilling growing paranoia in all its residents, but Mr Dominic Howard is in quite a different predicament. After suffering an accident of his own, he is referred to Dr Bellamy, but his sessions seem to be more of a hindrance than a help.<br/>Very Hannibal inspired but I'm not sure it's enough to be a crossover.<br/>"It's asking why we're so desperately attracted to something of a dark nature."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Camp Nanowrimo 2013. There might be some problems with the plot and stuff as I'm posting as I go, and most of this is just coming out of nowhere. Hopefully it won't be too bad.  
> Oh, and on another note, I can't quite believe I'm doing this.

Matthew, his name was. Dominic had been leaning against the bar and watching him out of the corner of his eye. He was here alone, and Dominic hadn’t seen him around before. In his shirt and neatly pressed trousers, he looked out of place in the bar, surrounded by young girls and boys out for a Saturday night drink, yet he was strangely calm, as if he had already found his niche in the bar. There was something alluring about him, that erased potential awkwardness, and Dom found himself eager to talk to him. Ordering two beers, he made his way to the table the man was lounging by.

"Hi there," he greeted him with his widest smile, taking in pale skin, razor sharp cheekbones and styled black hair, "I'm Dom. Dom Howard."

"Matthew," the man replied, nodding at the spare drink beside Dom's on the table. "That for me?"

"Sure, figured I'd bring you a welcoming present. Haven't seen you around here before."

"Haven't been here before." Matthew took the drink in his hand, slender fingers wrapping around the glass as he lifted it up to his lips, taking just a sip and smacking his lips together to savour the taste. "Seems more lively than most of the places in this town." Dom slipped into the chair opposite him, comfortable with the conversation.

"Yeah, it's not very upbeat here, but there are some places to go. My mates and I have been scouring for so many years that we've pretty much found them all. This is a favourite haunt of ours." Matthew nodded, watching as Dominic gestured to where his friends were sitting at the bar. Three other men were staring at them and, as Matthew slowly turned to meet their gazes, they ducked out of sight and disappeared. He smiled to himself.

"So, Dom," Matthew pronounced the word carefully, as if waiting for confirmation that it was correct, "if you don't mind my asking, what do you do? For work, that is."

"No, it's fine!" Dom scratched the back of his neck where is hairline ended, able to feel the sweat beading up there due to the unusual humidity. "Just work in an office for one of the local companies. Housing and stuff."

"Ah." Matthew took another, longer sip of his beer. "Is that interesting?"

"Not really. But it pays the bills, you know? And I'm hoping for a promotion soon, so maybe I'll have a bit more fun at work when I'm more in control." Matthew smiled, taking note of how much Dominic was revealing to him within the first five minutes of conversation.

"Well, good luck to you, then! If you feel like you're due a promotion, it's most likely that you are." Dominic's cheeks flushed lightly and he turned his head to the side, taking his eyes off Matthew to drink his beer.

When the glass was half empty, he set it down on the wooden table again.

"So, how about you? You look all dressed up, which I presume is for work. What do you do?" Dom asked, resting his elbow on the table and cupping his chin with his hand.

"I study," Matthew replied carefully, cocking his head and smoothing down his shirt. "People, mostly. I'm writing a book about their behaviours."

"Hasn't that been done a lot before?" Dom teased, a glint of teeth showing between his lips. Matthew pressed his lips together in a tight smile.

"Well, of course, but I'm hoping to offer something new to the library."

"Ah, right."

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, Matthew's fingers playing with something in his blazer pocket. Dominic bit his lip, trying to think of how to change the topic. Matthew didn't seem too comfortable talking about his work, which, to Dominic, was understandable. He knew that it was a touchy subject with many people he'd come across in the town, the recession bringing many people down until their jobs almost appeared to be something to be ashamed of. He shook his head at the thought and looked up, seeing Matthew smirking at him.

"Something the matter?" he asked in a light, playful tone. Dominic laughed softly, itching his neck again. As Matthew watched, his shirt sleeve slipped up to reveal the smooth, tanned skin of Dominic's bicep. He bit down on his tongue, the tangy metallic bite a familiar feeling from similar situations, and turned his head to the side so that Dominic was just out of his view.

"No, no, just thinking, is all." Both men nodded, watching each other closely. Dom downed the last of his beer.

"I'm going to get another glass," he told Matthew, "would you like one?" Matthew tilted his own glass, watching the bitter liquid rolling around in the bottom, the image of the table distorted. He traced the grain of the wood with his fingertip.

"Yes, please," he answered, hurriedly adding, "I'll pay, though!" Dom shook his head and made his way to the bar, unaware of Matthew watching his every move and analysing it, undressing him and redressing him in his mind.

Three beers later and Dominic's speech was already slurring, his movements slowing down as he tried to process his speech before it fell out of his mouth. Matthew was louder and less reserved, large hand gestures threatening to knock the collection of beer glasses off the table. The conversation topics ranged from how their days had been, what brought them to the bar and, eventually, and perhaps inevitably, to previous relationships.

"I don't tend to have relationships," Matthew admitted. "I had a girlfriend in Year 9 but I didn't take that too seriously. Needless to say, she dumped when me the gossip started to spread." He grinned, revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth, his nose scrunching up and mischievous eyes crinkling at the edges. Dom's jaw dropped.

"You cheated on your girlfriend when you were thirteen!" he cried. "What did your parents say?" Silently revelling in Dominic's astonishment, Matthew sat up straighter and leaned closer over the table.

"I didn't tell them. They didn't really like to get involved in all the whispers, you know? Wise, really. And good for me." Dominic shook his head in disbelief.

"Jesus. Here I was thinking that I was bad for never being able to hold down a relationship, but at least I tried!" Immediately, Matthew's grin was wiped off his face.

"You don't think badly of me, do you?" he asked tentatively, his voice small. Dominic looked over at him and was surprised to see that he appeared shrunken. Knowing he would retreat into his shell and scuttle off if Dom said anything else, he reassured Matthew that, No, he did not think badly of him and that it was several years ago.

"Besides, I'm not exactly looking for a relationship tonight," he added with a cheeky wink, his heart pounding wildly as he waited for Matthew's response, his face betraying nothing but desire.

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hm."

"And...what exactly _were_ you offering with that statement?" His voice was low and smooth, and Dom watched hungrily as his fingers tiptoed across the table towards Dominic's hand.

"Whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" Matthew's eyes flashed, bright azure startling Dominic into the present. A smirk began to inch its way across his face.

"Anything. With one request: come back to my place." Matthew licked his thin lips and smiled.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Hence Matthew soon found himself in a large, unfamiliar bed that Saturday evening.

Dominic leant his head back to rest against the pillow, pressing the cool fabric into the heated skin of his neck and gasped, moving his hands to rest on the hips of the man sat astride him.

"Fucking hell, you're good at this," he exclaimed breathily, Matthew smirking at him between choppy breaths.

"Had a lot of practise," came the reply, Matthew’s head snapping forward so that his eyes locked onto Dominic's. Only a sliver of blue was visible around the deep black of his pupils, his gaze lust-clouded and hazy. Dominic felt his eyes roll back into his head at another twist of his hips, a pale hand falling onto his heaving chest as the pair moved faster.

“Would’ve loved to have seen that.”

“I bet you would.” Matthew laughed between gasps, using his lithe body to his advantage as he rolled his hips. His eyes fell shut and he arched his back, his torso on display for Dominic’s hands to roam over every inch of creamy skin. Fingers gently brushed his nipples and circled his navel, Matthew gasping into the touch as he gripped the biceps he’d been eyeing up earlier.  His nails dug into the skin there as the pleasure built, the flesh bending to his will, his eyes squeezing shut. Dominic could barely feel Matthew's fingers wrapped around his arms, he was so focused on finishing.

With a sharp grunt, he snapped his hips up just as Matthew ground down. The pair howled at the glorious friction and Matthew fell forwards so that his chest was pressed against Dominic's, his face buried in his neck. He could hear Dominic's frantic pulse in his neck and smiled to himself, relishing the steady pounding, licking up the column and savouring the shiver it produced.

“My, my, Dominic Howard, aren’t you delicious,” Matthew drawled, one hand cupping Dom’s face and keeping his head pressed into the pillow, Dom squeezing his eyes shut as Matthew’s voice slithered over his skin. He let Dominic take control of his lower half, instead lathing the skin of Dom's neck and then biting down.

Dominic cried out at the sensory overload and dug his hands into Matthew's hips, moving him faster and faster, his fingertips leaving bruises on his pale skin. Matthew's mouth fell open as he gasped hotly into Dominic's skin, one hand reaching up to fist in his golden hair. He felt Dominic within him, sliding into places only a select few were allowed to visit, extracting nuggets of pleasure with every single touch, every brush of his hands over Matthew's skin.

"Ohh, God, Dominic," he moaned, his voice unexpectedly high-pitched. Dom groaned in response, forgetting in the heat of the moment that he hadn't told Matthew his full name.  He pressed their lips together, tasting the sweat gathering on Matthew’s upper lip. He gently stroked Matthew’s palette with the tip of his tongue, teasing him with little flicks, and the other man shuddered in his grasp, responding enthusiastically. He pulled away from Dom’s lips just to breathe, "Go on. Do it."

The pillow was soaked beneath Dom’s head, the sweat from his back and neck seeping into the cotton and curling the ends of his hair. Matthew took in the view from above hungrily and his voice lowered to a whisper.

"Do it."

With a low groan, Dominic let himself go, carried along on the current by Matthew's touches, the smaller man's voice joining him in a delirious chorus. Matthew fell limply onto Dominic's chest, giggling at the stickiness and wrinkling his nose up. Dominic's brain was too addled to pick up on Matthew's sudden change in demeanour, and his arms moved automatically to wrap themselves around Matthew's body. Matthew squirmed in the embrace, the sweat on his skin making him itchy and uncomfortable. Dom pulled his arms away immediately, unsure whether he'd stepped too close to Matthew. There was a certain detachment during sex that separated it from other acts of intimacy, and Dom had learned this the hard way.

Still, Matthew didn’t seem to be making an effort to move off Dom’s chest, instead lying there with his limbs askew, his face pressed into Dom’s shoulder and tickling the skin there.

“Best I’ve had in ages,” Dom murmured, stretching out his arms with a satisfying click. The post-coital glow radiating throughout his body made him sigh softly, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Got that right, bitch,” Matthew mumbled into his shoulder, Dom chuckling.

“You can definitely come back again.” There was a pause as Matthew mulled that over, watching Dominic as his lazy movements grew droopy.

“I don’t know about that.”

“I know you’re not looking for a relationship. Just don’t rule it out.”

Again, they lapsed into silence. Matthew cleared his throat and pushed himself up from the bed, bending over the edge to fetch his boxers.

"I should probably be going." Dom opened one eye and stared at him, slate grey fixing on bright blue.

"You can stay, you know." Matthew frowned and carefully manufactured a reply.

"I don't want to encroach..."

"It's fine, really. I think I owe it you after that." He laughed into his arm, bringing up to rest on his forehead. Matthew rolled his eyes. "Besides, you must have heard about the accidents recently. I'd be cruel if I let you go out there in the dark all by yourself, and there's no way I'm getting up now."

"Yes, I suppose I should worry about the murderer," Matthew whispered, shaking his head as he slipped back into his original place on the bed.

Dom rolled over onto his front, ending the conversation. He pressed his face into the pillow and grumbled when he could smell his own sweat. He could feel Matthew's eyes on him but didn't let it put him off, and his exhaustion eventually dragged him into sleep. Matthew remained silent, shifting so that he had his arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the way Dom hummed quietly in the early stages of sleep, a few loose strands of blonde hair drifting when he exhaled. His lean body was spread-eagled over the bed, leaving barely enough room for Matthew, one hand clutching at the duvet half hanging off him.

He took the time while Dominic was sleeping to observe his room. It wasn't especially large, the bed taking up most of the room, but Dom had made the best use of the space he had. A shelf hanging off the wall held a large number of CDs; a few picture frames decorated the other walls, some he recognised, some newer; an old dresser presumably contained Dominic's clothing, and there were a few things spilling out of the top drawer. Matthew smirked to himself at the typically messy nature of the other young man, wondering to himself how old Dominic actually was and thinking proudly of his own neat home.

He too fell asleep eventually, his eyes on Dominic the entire time until they closed of their own accord. The blonde shifted onto his back just as Matthew stretched out in his sleep, accidentally punching Dominic in the back. Dom screeched, waking them both up, and rolled onto his side to glare at Matthew accusingly.

"S-sorry!" Matthew squeaked. "I'm sorry, Dom, I didn't mean it, I fidget a lot, I know, I'm sorry." He peeled the covers from himself carefully and started to crawl out of the bed to get the rest of his clothes, but the cogs whirring in his mind were telling him to slow down. "I'll just leave."

"No, Matthew, don't worry," Dom mumbled sleepily, "Come back to bed, it's fine. I know you didn't mean it." Matthew pressed his lips together and nodded. Of course he didn't mean it.

Matthew returned to the bed and felt a pair of arms wind around him from behind. He grinned into the pillow and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He'd known Dominic for, what, five hours? Was it even that? And yet here he was, being cuddled in his bed. The night had certainly been a successful one.

Walking home the next morning, he whistled to himself as he craned his head up to gaze into the deep blue sky. It almost seemed to stare back at him sometimes, but it couldn’t disturb him this morning. A few of Dominic's neighbours seemed surprised to see an unfamiliar fellow departing his flat at such an early hour, but he merely flashed them a cheeky grin. He didn't have time for their judgemental natures.

Stuffing one hand in his pocket to avoid looking like all those pretentious prats by swinging his arms on his walk back home, he found a slip of paper there. Eyebrows drawn together, he fished it out from among the folds of fabric and laughed to himself, fingering the edges. Dominic had obviously ripped a piece of paper from a notebook somewhere and scrawled his phone number on it, hiding it in Matthew's pocket when he wasn't looking. Matthew fingered the edges of the paper as he passed a nearby bin, glancing sideways at it and debating what to do with the paper. However, as his fingers held it over the rim of the bag, he thought better of it, instead refolding the paper and replacing it. That might come in handy later.

The walk back from Dom's flat to his house wasn't too far, to Matthew's delight, and he unlocked his wooden front door and kicked it open merrily. As soon as it slammed shut behind him, he started grinning to himself.

"Yes, indeed, it is a wonderful day, is it not?" he laughed to himself, swinging into the study. He slid onto the stool in front of the pure white grand piano, stroking the sleek surface and pressing his fingers to the keys. A delicate melody forced its way from the piano, major tones with added embellishments echoing around the large room. Matthew bent over the keys, prising note after note from the ivory and revelling in the sweet music.

A knock on the door startled him out of his reverie and he grumbled to himself, rushing to the door and smoothing down his shirt before he opened it. In the doorway stood one of his clients, barely dressed with wild hair and missing a shoe. Her eyes were red-rimmed and he could see tear tracks glistening on her flushed cheeks. He repressed a disappointed sigh. So much for a wonderful morning.

"Dr Bellamy, I'm sorry to burst in on you like this, but I really have been having such a dreadful problem. Would you terribly mind helping me?" He spread the door wider, opening his arms and stepping back to allow access into the study.

"Of course not. Do come in."

Matthew watched the woman step into his study, feeling the soft carpet on her bare foot.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, wiggling her toes at the new texture, "I hadn't realised that. I forgot my shoe. I hope you don't mind, Dr Bellamy." He shook his head and watched as she sat herself down in one of the velvet-covered armchairs, her clammy hands leaving prints.

"Not at all. You know I only want to help you." She nodded and wiped a hand over her eyes, feeling tears threatening to spill again. Matthew slowly sat down in the chair opposite her, the leather creaking under his weight. He leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together. "So, tell me, what exactly is the problem?"

"Well, I-I just," the woman began, trailing off after a while when she felt her throat begin to close up.

"In your own time," Matthew told her, at the same time urging her to hurry up. She liked Dr Bellamy; even when he was constantly asking her about herself, he didn't seem prying. She always felt calm in his study, as though there was something in the air that soothed her as soon as she stepped in. She turned her head to the side to stare at the bookshelves lining the walls, not a single patch of mahogany visible through the large numbers of books. Intricately designed titles graced each spine, some in an unfamiliar language, others in English but impossible for her to understand just the same. Dr Bellamy was a clever man, that she knew, but he somehow never made her feel inferior.

"I've been having nightmares. Persistent ones," she confessed. "I would have waited until our next appointment, but I had such a terrible night last night that I felt like I just, I don't know, something was drawing me here." Matthew nodded slowly, watching the woman's movements as her eyes flickered quickly from side to side. He bounced his knees to keep himself busy, the conversation far less than stimulating.

"And...what exactly do these nightmares entail?"

"The murders."

"The recent ones?"

"Yes. I've been reading about them a lot, because they're so close to home, and now they're infiltrating my dreams." Matthew pursed his lips and thought for a moment, reading through her diagnosis and previous therapy in his mind.

"Do you think that perhaps you are so afraid of the murderer that it is invading your dreams? That your fear transcends daily life? Because that would be perfectly normal. I can assure you that you aren't the only person in this town who is afraid."

However, she shook her head violently, her already messy hair falling in her face. Matthew noticed she failed to brush it back, her wide eyes still darting around the room.

"No, I'm not afraid, that's the point. I'm not afraid of the murders at all."

"You are not," he repeated bluntly, and she confirmed it with a sharp nod. Matthew proceeded tentatively, "so...what is it that you are afraid of?"

"Nothing." He paused and leaned back into the chair, folding his arms across his chest, keeping an eye on her as she steeled herself, looking directly into his own eyes.

"Nothing at all?"

"No."

"What is it about this room that disturbs you?" The sudden change in topic threw her off course, and she stumbled for words.

"You don't have music playing today," she noted with surprise, looking up at the ceiling and then over towards the piano. The cover was still up.

"You're right, I don't. Is that what's putting you off?" She shook her head, rubbing the tops of her arms. "You don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, it's just that I'm not disturbed at all."

"And...you are usually? Does something feel different?" Matthew was losing his patience. The woman was showing obvious signs of fear, and yet she would not tell him anything. As her psychiatrist, he was determined to get everything out of her, and yet she was withholding all that she knew. How very infuriating.

"No, Dr Bellamy, nothing is odd at all. Everything is just as normal. Perhaps that's it. I was expecting something to have changed." She shrugged and turned back to focus on him. He watched her with a scrutinising stare and then smiled slightly, unfolding his arms to hold out his hands to her.

"There is nothing new here. Things are much the same as they have always been, except perhaps the difference in my schedule now that you have turned up on my doorstep." He gave a shallow chuckle and she laughed along with him.

"Maybe that's it. I usually have evening appointments. The lighting might be different. I don't know." She laughed again and scratched the back of her neck. Matthew's lips parted as he watched, and for some bizarre reason, he wondered whether Dominic had woken up and found him absent yet. He hoped that he had, and for a brief moment allowed himself to imagine Dom's disappointed pout. The thought brought a genuine smirk to his lips.

Indeed Dominic had woken up and rolled over, patted the duvet in search of another body, and sighed deeply when the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets weren’t even warm. He hauled himself from the bed and threw some clothes on, looking down at the floor and reminding himself of the night he’d had, a smile spreading involuntarily over his face.

He scooped yesterday’s clothes from the floor and took them into his tiny kitchen, throwing them into the washing machine and leaning against the counter as he pondered what to make for breakfast. There was a strange hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach which he pinned down as a minor hangover and gave him an excuse to swallow a tablet, shaking his head and wincing at the taste, even though he knew that wasn’t quite the case.

And so did Matthew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much happens in this one, except a few new introductions and familiar faces.  
> If you're interested, I've made a little playlist, which is here: http://grooveshark.com/playlist/Darkshines/88432030

That night, Dominic was resting on the edge of the bed with his phone clutched in one hand, the other rapidly pressing the keypad over and over. Matthew hadn't called him yet; he had expected this, yet the optimistic side of him had been holding out hope that the other man might change his mind and at least call him. However, there are no missed calls on his phone, no vibrations for text messages, nothing.

Dom sighed to himself and chucked the phone across the room, watching it land with a light thud in the corner. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet, he thought to himself. Maybe he'll come around.

The following day, there were still no messages. Dom pulled his phone from his pocket on his lunch break and stroked the keys, wondering whether he should just call Matthew himself. Then he realised that he didn't have his number, and groaned again, returning to his work and pretending to be satisfied with his existence as a bachelor. He didn't need anybody else in his life, not even if they were an attractive, alluring stranger who liked to cuddle after sex. Nope. He was fine on his own.

At the same time that Dominic was desperately checking his phone every five minutes, no matter what he told himself, an argument was boiling over in the building opposite him.

"What do you expect me to do? There's nothing in this damn town!" a young man cried, his stubble-covered cheeks flushed with anger.

"Nothing in this town? There's been a series of murders recently! Isn't that enough for you?" his boss argued, slamming his hand down on his desk and glaring up at his employee.

"You know that you didn't put me on that though, did you? Somebody else got there before me," he spoke between gritted teeth, trying to keep his cool. He knew that his boss was quite temperamental and flew into an argument easily, but getting on his bad side could only mean trouble. He was already in his bad books for filling the newspaper with useless tales about the nearby towns. Of course, it wasn't his fault that nothing new was happening in Boston, but the industry was calling for excitement, and people would get cut if they couldn't provide it.

The older man sighed to himself and rested his clasped hands on the table.

"Kirk, I'll give you a deal. You write me an article about the murders and have it in by Friday evening. If I think it's good enough, I'll give you the case. Does that sound reasonable?" Tom Kirk threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"What if nothing happens between now and Friday? You can't predict a murderer! _I_ can't predict a murderer. What if there's no news, or he's taking a break, or he's gone on holiday?" he cried, the fury getting to his head and stirring up his thoughts.

"Then speculate. People like to hear theories and suggestions just as much as they appreciate news. You've already started pinpointing the killer as a man, so why not start with that? Look around town, visit the police department, talk to the victims’ families. I don't care what you do, just make it good, make it interesting, and then the job's yours."

"Bu-" Tom began to protest, but his boss held up a finger and cut him off.

"None of that. This is the final deal." Tom swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut for second and then nodded reluctantly. He thanked the man and left the office. As soon as the thick door was shut behind him, though, he began grumbling to himself.

"What the hell does he mean, speculate? I'm not with the police force or anything. I don't know shit about murderers. Fuck this," he groaned, scrunching his hands up into fists. He desperately wanted the job, yes, because he felt he had a lot to say about the murders themselves, and he was in need of the pay rise, but he had no idea what to fill the paper with in the meantime.

Swinging into the main office which he shared with the other journalists, he patted his friend on the shoulder. A blonde man called Morgan shot up, startled, and then rolled his eyes, relaxing when he saw it was just Tom.

"Hey, mate, I need your help," Tom began, twisting his hands to stop them jittering.

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Boss has given me a deal. I need to give him something about the recent murders by Friday or else I'm gonna get kicked out of here, I just know it."

"And I can help you how? You know that I only do politics. All the other drama is beyond me."

"I just need some ideas while the murderer’s hibernating or whatever the hell serial killers do in their downtime. What would you want to read about if you were scanning through the newspaper?" Morgan thought for a moment, rubbing his chin with his thumb and scowling at a patch of stubble he'd missed earlier.

"I don't know, man. Something exciting, but careful. You don't want to offend anyone." Tom nodded, fetching his notepad from his pocket and beginning to write down Morgan's ideas. "Maybe suggesting what the killer would be like, telling people who to watch out for and how to keep safe? People are terrified, so reassuring them would be a good move."

"Right so, include details, make it scary but don't frighten them? Isn't that a bit of a contradiction?"

"You'll work out what to do, I'm sure." Morgan patted him on the back, his hits a bit stronger than they should have been, and Tom stumbled over his feet.

"Right, thanks, mate. I'm heading off to do some research, then."

Leaving the building, Tom started a jaunty walk down to the police station, hoping that he would find some information there. He passed by the rows of houses and wondered about what his boss had said. How many people were cowering away in their homes, terrified of this murderer? And how many more weren't taking it seriously, lounging around outside the pubs late at night as they usually did? Perhaps it would be fun to give them a healthy dose of fear. Not to mention helpful.

He crossed the river, peering into the murky depths and screwing his nose up. He himself wasn't too scared of this killer just yet, although he kept his wits about him. He wouldn't do anything stupid, but he was always a careful person anyway. He got on the bad side of people when writing before and had learnt not to get mixed up with the wrong people if you want to avoid trouble.

The police station was a short, stout building made of crumbling red bricks, a small car park in front of it holding the vehicles of the few who worked there. Most of the criminals were only kept for a few days during their court hearings before being set free or transported to a larger jail, so much of the building was made up of offices. This was, of course, just what he was looking for.

He stood outside the building, peering through the glass of the door into the foyer. A man in uniform was manning the desk, idly doodling on a pad of paper and glancing over at the computer every few seconds. Before entering the building, Tom scoped out the area, taking a look at the scenery around him. Once again, it was a fairly nice day, so the station didn't look as intimidating and imposing as it usually did. A look up at the covering above his head proved Tom's suspicions; the place was covered in security cameras, and he could see three just within his line of sight. He didn't doubt that there were more than this hidden away elsewhere.

When he turned back to the door, the man at the desk was staring right at him. Tom jumped, not expecting the man's stare to be quite as steely as it was, and pressed the buzzer on the door. He watched as the man got up, revealing himself to be taller than he looked from behind the desk, and made his way to the door. It opened and Tom felt an air-conditioned breeze rush out towards him through the gap, tickling is ankles where his trousers didn’t reach his shoes.

"Do you have an appointment?" the man asked, his voice surprisingly high. Tom licked his upper lip nervously as he tried to think of what the best answer would be. If he began lying then people would find him out, and the police weren't the sort of people he'd like to cross. But then, he really did want to get inside...

"N-no, but I've been in before," he replied as confidently as he could.

"That doesn't tell me anything. Who are you?"

"Tom Kirk. Journalist for The Star."

"Another Goddamn journalist! That's the second one today." Tom frowned, biting his lip as he thought of the rival newspaper. If they'd already had a journalist here, they would have a story out sooner. Which meant that his content wouldn't be unique and he wouldn't get the job and the newspaper wouldn't receive as much due to the competition...this could only have bad outcomes. He grumbled to himself, sure he knew exactly who his opposition was.

"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly, holding his hands out. "You must have known this was coming, though. The public want to know what's going on."

"We haven't had any new information for over a week now, though. There isn't anything to tell you." Tom shook his head, having already started forming some ideas in his mind. He remembered that they were still standing outside and wiped his hand over his forehead, licking his lips again.

"Listen, could I come in? It's baking hot out here and-" The man cut him off, opening the door wider and removing his stocky body from Tom's path, allowing him into the cool foyer. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, part of him actually bothered by the heat.

"There's a drink machine back here. I'll get you a cup of water," the man told him, sticking his thumb behind him and gesturing at the open door to what Tom presumed was the main office. Tom watched him go and wandered around the foyer, taking in the uncomfortable plastic seats and the echo of his feet on the vinyl flooring. Peering through the door which the man had gone through, he could see much comfier seats and a few other employees sitting around, presumably on their lunch break. There were other doors in the office, all blocked from his view. He turned away when one of the people looked up and instead switched his focus to the corridor leading away from the foyer.

At the end of the corridor was the door to a stairwell, but the corridor itself was completely blank. The walls were painted clean white, not tainted by anything. Tom wondered whether they employed people to wash the walls so that any coffee spills and ink prints were removed before guests could see the corridor looking anything less than spotless.

The cleanliness of the place threw him off; he hadn't exactly been expecting screaming serial killers gnawing at jail bars, but he was almost certain that the place wouldn't look as sterilised as this. For a brief moment, he wondered whether he'd accidentally taken the wrong route and found himself at the hospital instead.

The receptionist returned with a plastic cup of water for Tom, which he received gratefully and sipped at, squeezing his eyes shut when the cool liquid hit his dry lips.

"So, was there something you wanted specifically?" the man asked after Tom had indulged himself in a few more sips of water.

"Well, you must know I'm after information about the recent murders. Is there anyone I could talk to who could give me that?"

"We're not supposed to allow the Press into this yet." His voice was quiet and he ducked his head. Tom rolled his eyes. He'd come across this obstacle before, too.

"Don't you have general information you can give us? The public need to know what's going on."

"It's safer for them not to know. They might get scared and go wild."

"Or they might not take this seriously, walk around late at night and get murdered because they didn't know what to do," Tom argued sharply, thinking to himself that anybody who wouldn't automatically be more careful about themselves during this period of terror must obviously be incredibly stupid, but nonetheless hoping that it would get him deeper into the station. The other man sighed deeply.

"I suppose there is somewhere I could take you," he began, "if you promise to behave." He lifted his head, his eyes focused on Tom's and holding his gaze. Tom almost felt like he was a kid in school again, being told not to throw things across the classroom and, ‘you should know better now that you're almost eight’.

"Of course. I wouldn't do anything you don't want me to, I promise. We're a respectable business, you know." The man nodded, wiped his hands on his trouser legs and then gestured for Tom to follow him. He took him down the corridor towards the door at the end, pulling a set of keys from the lanyard around his neck and unlocking the door. He pulled it open and nodded at Tom to step through.

The stairwell was even cooler than the foyer, despite the lack of air-conditioning, and Tom shivered in just his thin shirt. He had loosened his tie on the way over, but now he fiddled with it to do his shirt up to the top button once more. The man chuckled.

"It gets like that in here, sometimes. I have no idea why. I'm Charlie, by the way," he introduced himself finally, holding out a hand for Tom to shake. He almost started to say his own name but then remembered that he'd had to explain his purpose at the door, so decided to avoid that awkward route of conversation.

Charlie took him up one level of stairs, the grey stone beneath their feet exactly the same as the stone of the walls. It almost seemed like the stairs had been moulded out of the same slab of rock, the corners of the stairwell invisible to Tom's eyes. At the top of this flight-and there was another set above, Tom noticed, and a darker set that led beneath the ground-was another door, this one with two locks. He watched Charlie with the keys, noticing he had several sets on there. Some of them had Sharpie markings on them so that he knew which ones unlocked which doors, while the more memorable ones remained blank. Tom found himself considering how difficult it would be to take the keys from his neck and run off with them, and was then ashamed of himself for the rest of the short journey.

With shame burning in his cheeks, he followed Charlie down yet another corridor, this one not as clean and well kept as its partner below. Obviously they liked to keep up appearances. Here the walls were lined with wooden doors, paper signs stuck to the front of each announcing who was inside and what their purpose was.

He pushed open the door labelled ‘Intensive’, revealing a large office with several tired police officers sat at desks. Tom observed the man at the desk closest to the door who was poring over some papers and photographs spread over the plastic cover, marking down points in a notepad and circling things that seemed the most important. Charlie cleared his throat and the man looked up, immediately narrowing his eyes at Tom.

"Who's this?" he asked with a sharp tone of accusation to his voice.

"Tom Kirk. He's a journalist," Charlie explained. "He's looking for the general information, you know, like what you gave that other guy this morning." The man at the desk shook his head.

"That wasn't me. That guy didn't go further than reception, as far as I'm aware. Conducted an interview with some dude down in the foyer and then left. You know they're not allowed up here." The ends of Charlie's lips turned down and Tom suddenly realised that he must be new to the force. Obviously he'd been trying not to step out of order, and now his job was on the line.

"I promise you I won't be too disruptive," Tom chipped in, hoping that the helpful man would be spared, "I just want something to tell the public. They're scared, so we need to start explaining things to them." The desk worker's expression softened ever so slightly before returning to its stoic first impression. He got up from behind the desk and ignored Charlie, instead moving towards Tom.

"Come with me, then. There's something you might be allowed to see, but you'll need to be taken to the interview room first. Alone," he added, with a pointed look at Charlie. The larger man nodded and shuffled out of sight, Tom feeling distinctly more vulnerable now that he was alone with the fierce new man. He was taken into a room just down the corridor, again without a lock on the door, and was invited to sit down. The room was almost identical to what Tom had managed to glimpse of the office downstairs, and he leaned back into the chair, fetching his notepad from his pocket as the man sat down in front of him.

"There have been three murders so far," he began, leaning forward on the edge of his seat as he began talking to Tom. There was something hidden behind his back that Tom was aching to see, and he bit his lip as he tried to come up with a plan. Something in his mind was telling him that he wouldn't be shown whatever it was, only told about it. The best way for information to be withheld, he thought. I have to see that evidence. "All fairly brutal. They are often killed with two or three stabs to the body with an unknown weapon an-"

"Wait, you don't know what it is yet?" Tom interrupted, genuine surprise knocking him off course. How could they possible not know? "Aren't you supposed to be able to tell or find evidence, or at least have an idea of what it could be?"

"Well, it doesn't look like your usual weapon. We can recognise certain things, of course, but there are complications with the bodies that mean it is quite difficult to figure out exactly what has gone on. Our killer is very skilled, very precise. They know what they're doing and they do it well, as disgusting as that makes me feel to say it." Tom shuddered, penning down the man's words. He searched for his voice recorder in his pocket and scowled to himself when he realised he'd forgotten it, cursing his morning laziness.

"If the public are worried about what sort of person to look out for, they won't be able to find them any time soon. This person doesn't leave a trace behind. We have little to no evidence as of yet," he continued, being as truthful as he could without giving away important lines of investigation. There was only so much the Press could publish before things got to be too much. The killer could be reading the papers themself, after all, and might change tactics. There was nothing that could destroy them more than a change in technique or, God forbid, a copycat killer.

"So...would you say the killer is a psychopath?" Tom inquired quietly, fear rising in his stomach and pushing his heart into this throat. He swallowed it down and waited patiently for a reply as the man thought it over.

"It is...likely, yes. But we cannot know for sure. Perhaps this person has an illness or some ulterior motive that we don't know about. And until we can pinpoint that, it's difficult to profile the killer." Tom paused to note all of this down, determined not to miss anything out, and then looked up, tapping his pen against his lips.

“Profile the killer?”

“Of course. We have to figure out what they’re doing and what sort of person they are so it makes it easier to find them.”

“Do you have somebody who does this?”

“We have a team. We’ve heard of forensic psychiatrists in other units who can do it, but, of course, a small unit like ours doesn’t have one of them. We made a call but haven’t had a reply. It’s awful, really, that they’d leave us hanging so long. Yes, there have only been fo-three murders so far, but this is an extremely serious problem.” Tom paused and swallowed, choosing not to pick the man up on his slip. Perhaps he’d just mistaken the numbers for a brief moment.

"I don't suppose you'd be allowed to reveal information to me so that the public know who to look out for?" Tom said, almost completely sure that the only man would disagree. And, as expected, he didn't disappoint him.

"I'd have to ask the boss that. We're only allowed to reveal so much, as you already know." From outside came the distant sound of sirens going past. The man barely noticed it, he was so used to it by this point.

"Okay, so, how about the murders? Is there a certain group of people who need to watch out? And what are they watching for?"

"As far as we've seen, there isn't a pattern. Each was in different areas of town and its outskirts; the victims didn't have anything in common-at least as far as we've checked." Tom sighed. As much as he wanted to write an exciting article, he also wanted to watch out for himself. It was selfish, yes, but he'd half hoped that the killer just liked pretty, blonde women so he'd be in the clear. However, as he looked up from his notepad once more, the man's face showed signs of something else, as though he wanted to say something else. It only flashed across for a brief second, but Tom was quick enough to notice it after years of experience.

"There's something else, isn't there?" he said, coaxing out a reply. The sirens outside had been switched off.

"Well, there's one thing," he began, wetting his lips and progressing slowly. "You see, it's like...well, I really shouldn't be telling you this." Tom's fist tightened around his pen, the plastic slipping from his sweaty grasp.

"No, go on, please. It won't be a problem."

"There's something missing."

"Missing?" His eyebrows drew together and he blindly scrawled down every word as he continued to watch the man's face, unable to see his handwriting spiralling over the page.

"Yes. This might be hard to believe, but I'm sure you can handle it, right?" Tom nodded a bit too enthusiastically. He heard footsteps coming down the corridor, hard and heavy on the stone floor, and his heart beat just that little bit faster. "Well, we're missing-"

The door was thrown open and the sunlight shining through the doorway was blocked off by a large, imposing figure.

"What," he barked, "is going on in here?" The man Tom had been talking to leapt up from his seat into a rigid, respectful position, and Tom mirrored him clumsily.

"Just talking, Inspector Wolstenholme, sir," the man replied timidly, all the confidence he'd shown earlier with Tom vanished under the man's glare.

"Didn't I say that the Press weren't allowed on this case?" Inspector Wolstenholme held a finger out and jabbed it towards the man's chest, barely missing him as he sucked a shocked breath in. "Didn't I?"

"Yes, sir."

"So what made you think you had the right to bring him in here?" The man swallowed and felt his palms grow clammy as he rubbed his fingers together nervously. Christopher Wolstenholme had always intimidated him, and being caught doing something he definitely shouldn't have been struck alarm bells in his mind.

"Charles brought him up, sir. I thought it had been cleared," he lied, turning his head away to stare at Tom accusingly.

"You should have known better! He's just a boy!" Tom stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"I'm really sorry, Mr Wolstenholme, sir, but it isn't entirely his fault. I insisted on being shown up here," he butted in apologetically, wondering for the second time that day when he’d become so helpful.

"Who are you?" Mr Wolstenholme asked, his voice dropping as he glared at Tom, his hazel eyes narrowed to slits. The smaller man felt the full weight of his stare and shivered.

"Tom Kirk, sir."

"I haven't heard of you before. I know all the journalists around here."

"I haven't spoken to the police before, sir. I was just a columnist." Mr Wolstenholme raised one eyebrow and snorted, folding his arms over his chest.

"Makes sense. Go back to your bloody gossip column. We don't want anybody messing around in here. You need to learn to mind your own business." Tom nodded shakily, his cheeks coloured bright pink as he started to step around Mr Wolstenholme's figure in the door. "Go on, scram!"

He scurried out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This research lark is bloody difficult, isn't it?

Detective Inspector Christopher Wolstenholme groaned to himself, running a hand down his face so that he didn't have to watch the lower officer disappear from the interview room. Sometimes he wondered whether it would just be best to clone himself and run the police station alone. The new recruits were all incompetent, the old ones were getting lazy, and it seemed that if you wanted a job done, you really had to do it yourself.

He threw open the door to the office where everyone was working on the case, spying the disgraced man sat and working diligently at his desk _. Obviously to keep up appearances_. Chris looked away, not wanting to pay him any more attention than he deserved.

"Alright, everyone, here's the news," he stated in a bold, booming voice, all the officers' heads snapping up to watch him carefully. "The most recent body has been located, the crime scene has been photographed and redrawn, and we've got people working on it right now. The body's being transported to the morgue at this very minute." There were a few nods around the room.

"This is our fourth victim now. We're almost completely sure that it's the same killer. Shows the same stab wounds and, of course, the usual problems." Several more solemn nods were spotted around the room, wide eyes staring Chris down as he broke the bad news. "We're heading down to the hospital right now to go over the recent body. The doctors down there are arranging an autopsy right away, so I'm going to supervise. We've also sent forensics down to the scene, but I'll need two of you down there to watch over them and divert the public. We don't want them seeing anything more than necessary."

"Although that point's almost null and void now that the Press have been here," he grumbled under his breath, the only person catching his voice the man sat at the front. _Good_ , thought Chris. _He needs to know what he's done._

"Inspector Wolstenholme, when will we get the pictures?" a man asked from the back of the room, speaking before he thrust his hand in the air.

"They're just being printed right now. There are quite a lot, so be prepared. Have you got anything more for me from the last lot?"

"Nothing new since this morning, sir." Chris nodded and sighed to himself, having expected this already. Their killer was rather elusive.

"Right," he continued, the rest of the people in the room still hanging on his every word, "I'm going to get a team from above to come down with me to the hospital to make sure that they don't miss him. I shouldn't be gone long, because I want to get down to the crime scene and see what's going on over there. Once we've sorted out what happened where, we can try a re-enactment to profile the killer, find out the motives, etcetera. I've called the London offices asking for a team of specialists to come up, and they said that they were considering it."

Some faces brightened at this, the possibility of a relieved workload enough to smash some of the fear that was starting to rise in the veins; others were not so happy. They didn't want the pompous city folks coming in with their professional materials and messing up the community. Not that it was particularly tightly-knit, but a lot of the force felt they had something to prove to Inspector Wolstenholme, desperate to earn their keep in the harsh business.

A hand was up in the left hand side of the room.

"Yes, Miss Hardey, is there something you would like to ask?"

"Is anybody else going with you to the hospital, sir? We'll need somebody to take pictures of the procedure, to take notes on the process and figure out what we can and cannot give to the Press, who w-" He cut her off, his previously agitated expression morphing into the boiling of rage in his eyes.

"We do not give the Press anything!" he commanded, slamming his fist on the wall he was leaning against for effect. Miss Hardey nearly fell off the edge of her seat at the thump. "They're stealing from us, and we cannot allow that. This information is completely private and not for the public eye just yet. If I catch any more of you sharing details with those filthy animals, I will have it seen that the consequences are taken out thoroughly." A shudder ran through the room as they processed his words.

"This is the final word. I shall be back within three hours; if not, I'll call reception. Listen out for them."

Chris left the office and jogged down to the car park, knowing that his anger tended to cloud his judgement. He fished the keys for the police car from the lanyard and clicked open the lock, the doors pinging open with a muted squeak. Sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut, he paused to himself for a moment. He was alone, at last, and was able to think about what had happened. He'd seen terrible things already that day; nothing worse could possibly turn up. It wasn't the information that scared him, but the images. There was something different about being told of a brutal murder and seeing the evidence for it spread out on the floor in front of him.

Chris counted himself lucky that he didn't get too close with the people of the town. Some heads of department liked to be friendly with the public and talk to them on first name basis, but Chris didn't feel that connection with them. He kept to his own close group of friends and his wife, Kelly. The rest of the town was only business for him, which was good when something like this had happened. He didn't know what he'd do if somebody he liked was found dead in an alleyway like the poor soul of last night's activity.

He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, wincing when the horn was louder than he had expected. Two officers hurried out of the main door towards the car, bickering to themselves over who would be sitting in the front and who would be left with the back seat. As one of them opened the door, Chris raised his eyes and stared down the man who had tried to sit next to him. Slowly, the door was shut and the pair got into the back.

He barely gave them a second to put their seatbelts on before he pulled out of the car park and started making the drive to the hospital, watching the town's buildings flash by. He didn't have any reason to turn on the sirens, as there wasn't an emergency, but the urgency he felt towards getting to the body meant that he himself was pushing the boundaries of the speed limits. Cars seemed determined to block his path, deliberately being slow just so that he wouldn't be able to pass. They sat and waited for five minutes at every red light.

_Perhaps_ , he thought bitterly, _somebody is getting pleasure out of seeing a police car stopping and waiting for traffic_. He patted his hand idly on his left thigh, drumming out a beat that only he could hear. The two in the back were silent.

They eventually pulled into the hospital car park, rushing out of the car to get to the area. Chris was walking so fast that the team behind him nearly had to jog to keep up with him. As he pushed open the double doors to the department, they barely avoided being smacked in the face by the glass the swung closed behind him.

After demanding directions at the desk, Chris was directed down into the basement where the autopsy would be taking place. The closer they got to the examination room, the more hollow the corridor sounded, their footsteps the only noise that could be heard until they passed through to the lab area.

Here it was a hive of activity. On the opposite side of the corridor to the morgue, there was more life here than Chris had even seen at some of the town's bars on a Friday night. People were milling about all over the place, hurrying to computers and scanners and disappearing behind locked doors with their lab coats swishing behind them. He watched, bemused, as several people passed him before somebody took notice of his uniform and approached.

"Hello, sir, may I help you?" he asked in his most polite tone, not intimidated by the uniform, even when taking in Chris' expression. They saw police here quite a lot of the time, even just for unsuspicious deaths, so it was no big deal having to cope with having them in the lab. He knew just how to handle them.

"Yeah, I'm looking for the examination on the serial killer case? What was the doctor’s name? Um...Dr De...Devonly?"

"Almost." The man cracked a smile at Chris'  expense, but it wasn't returned. "Devonish. Please may I see your credentials? For you and your team." Chris grumbled to himself, gesturing down at his uniform but retrieving his ID from his pocket anyway, reaching behind him for the others' cards. He handed the three over to the assistant, who checked them thoroughly, glancing up at their faces in turn to make sure that he was satisfied. Once he was done, he handed the cards back and rubbed his hands together.

"Well, this is the case," he announced, spreading his arms out. Chris noticed that he was careful even in these large actions. Years working in the lab had led to an anxious nature, knowing that he could be destroying and knocking over vital evidence if any accidents were to happen.

Chris and his team peered around at the activity in the lab. Upon closer inspection, he could see that people were analysing samples and writing up notes on a board which was slowly being filled with evidence in pale green marker pen. As he watched, a young woman in goggles ambled up to the board and scrawled a note about a blood sample found at the crime scene. The assistant standing with them followed Chris' line of sight.

"You have evidence from the crime scene already? I thought they were waiting a while for that," Chris admitted, confused.

"Ah, yes, but we took a little bit on our way back. We figured it would help us with the autopsy, as we needed to know whether the blood was from the killer or the victim."

"And your verdict?"

"We aren't sure yet. We haven't been working on it long and, as you can see, the sample has only just been typed. We haven't yet got a sample from the body-as far as I know-because they still aren't finished with the examination." He had his hands clasped together in front of him as he explained this, looking Chris in the eye. The inspector was tempted to look away towards what was going on around them but remained focused. "I presume that's what you're here to sit in on, yes?"

"Of course."

"And this team is..."

"The team is from our station. They're here to take notes and check over. I understand that you are all very careful with your work, yes, but it's always good to have somebody behind you to check you haven't missed anything, is it not?" Chris didn't miss the man's eyes narrowing, but the tone of the conversation remained friendly.

"Right. Of course. Well, if you'll just follow me, I'll take you to the lab." He set off, briskly weaving his way through the mass of people toward a door at the other end of the large lab to what was presumably smaller rooms. Along the way, he gave orders to the police. "You'll need to wear these masks and gloves so that you don't contaminate the body. I'm sure you know all about that," he added when Chris looked like he was going to interrupt, "and you might not even touch the body yourselves, but we need to take all of our precautions, do we not?" Chris ignored the jibe, pulling the latex gloves over his large hands and wiggling his fingers to get them into the end. He was handed a fabric mask to put over his mouth, snapping the back of the elastic against his head to test how tight it was. He dug into his skin a bit, parting his hair and rubbing against the sensitive scalp, but it wasn't anything he worried about much.

Once they were kitted out, they were ushered into the room. The pathologists working on the body looked up as they entered, their eyes wide as the strangers entered the room.

"Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Christopher Wolstenholme," he began, holding out a hand for one of them to shake. Nobody took it, and he let his arm fall to the side. "This is my team from the station. I assume you've already been told that we would be observing the examination, yes?"

"Yes, we were told," a woman replied sharply. "I’m Dr Devonish. Just a few ground rules: don't interrupt us when we are talking. Don't take off your masks or gloves and don't touch the body. If you can stick to those, I'm sure we can get along."

Chris doubted it but nodded all the same.

He made himself comfortable in a chair in the corner of the room where he had a good view of the male body laid out on the examination table, beginning to note things down as he watched his team hovering over the irritated pathologists. The man laid out on the table was bare, but his lower half was covered by a thin white sheet. He was a little over average height and weight, looking fairly ordinary, with pale brown hair and lightly tanned skin. Chris couldn't glean much just from seeing the body at this angle, but as he tuned into the mutterings of the workers, he slowly started to understand the signs that were in front of him.

"They're determining time of death," one of his team members, Mr Cerise, told him in a hushed whisper, and Chris nodded.

"Check the eyes again," Dr Devonish barked. "Have you checked the eyes?"

"Yes, Dr, I have checked the eyes, but I will check again," Miss Brink, her trainee assistant, answered passively. She shuddered as she peered over the eyes again and shone a bright light into them, waiting for the blink that would never come. She was only young and yet she had already handled enough dead bodies for a lifetime. Sometimes she wondered whether she'd chosen the right career, but she was too far along the path now to change her mind. Dr Devonish had only just started to warm to her.

"Cloudy, Dr. Just as I said earlier." She couldn't help adding the I-told-you-so tone to her voice, but knew as soon as she said it that the formidable glare that would be turned on her wasn't worth it. She ducked away and continued to scan down the body.

"We'll do the obvious first, then. Wounds and photographs. Don't turn over the body until I say."

The pair examined the body carefully, Wolstenholme's team snapping photos of every stage and making sure that it was all documented before the evidence was tampered with. A man came in with a plastic evidence bag and took a swab of the victim's skin cells as well as plucking a hair from his head before whisking it away again for analysis. Another woman came in with yet another swab to take a bit of the blood from the wound sites.

"We're very lucky with this one," Dr Devonish explained to Chris, her voice louder as she was turned away from him and still bent over her work. "It's not too difficult to work on because he's fairly intact. There are several wounds, yes, and we are still unsure of the full extent of internal damage, but it shouldn't be difficult to identify him. All we need to do is send the prints through and get somebody who knows him to come in and clear it with us."

"He's probably local," Chris added to that, "so relatives or friends shouldn't be hard to find."

"Exactly. We'll have you a name by the end of the day."

Chris nodded and noted this down, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips for the first time that day. The easy identification meant that he could trace back the victim's footsteps to see where they might have met. As yet unsure of how the killer was targeting his victims, this way he could try and find a common factor between the daily schedules of this man and the three before him. At least they were getting somewhere with this.

"Three wounds on the front of the body. Lots of blood around these two, so I'm thinking they were administered before death. May I see the pictures of the crime scene?" she asked, one of Wolstenholme's team members rushing over to hand her the camera. She flicked through the pictures and nodded, pointing at it. "Lots of blood surrounding these wounds. It would have settled if he was dead before the wounds were made. This one here on the chest, though, I think this was after death. It was neatly done, so the attacker wasn't worried so much about time. Mr Wolstenholme, could you come here please? It will be easier to explain if you can see."

He got up from the chair and stood next to Dr Devonish, staring at the body impassively. Years on the force had told him not to think of the bodies as people. Getting too emotionally involved would lead to mistakes. He couldn't afford to be anything but objective when dealing with victims. Dead ones. Very dead.

"As you can see, there are two wounds on the front of the body that we clearly made before death, poured blood out and all that. They're a few inches deep, get that for me, Brink, and look a bit messy. I think the man might have been thrashing around a bit so it made it quite difficult to get a clean stab wound, although these aren't as bad as I've seen. Usually if it's difficult to get a grip on the guy, the stab will turn to a slash, which is nowhere near as devastating. Whoever this killer is, he's fairly skilled."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time he's killed. Similar wounds as well. Are they in the same place as last time? I can't remember."

"One in the femoral artery, here. That would have bled a lot, and fast. I'd say your guy has done a lot of research on this. That's a target spot; we've seen that quite a lot in lots of cases around the world. A common place to go because it's so painful, and the victim will start to drain very rapidly."

"And the second?"

"Up through the throat. He's passed the clavicles, see, gone right through the middle and pierced the throat. His knife, or whatever it is that he's used, isn't very long, I should think, but that doesn't matter here. He's cut through some pretty important arteries and probably damaged the vocal cords."

"So they couldn't cry out." Chris' voice was barely a whisper, and a silence fell across the room.

"Clever," Miss Brink breathed, earning her a suspicious glance from Chris' team.

“They’re in the same places as the previous victims. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

“The previous victims all had these wounds here, as well?” Dr Devonish pointed to a long line that split the man’s chest into two. Chris nodded solemnly. Shaking her head, she peeled back the flaps of skin created by slicing it into two, gasping as the man’s internal organs-or what was left of them- were revealed.

“There are some missing,” she gasped, terror flooding her voice as she raised her hand to her face. Chris raised his eyebrows.

“Obviously you weren’t the ones working on the previous victims,” he muttered, exhaling on a low whistle as he peered into the body, taking note of the obvious lack of lungs. “I was fearing something like this would happen.”

“You mean, you knew that this man’s lungs would be missing?” Dr Devonish went to put her hand on her hip but rethought that idea when she realised that her gloves were covered in blood, instead placing it down on the examination table.

“Well, not exactly his lungs. Most of the prior removals have been smaller organs like the spleen or the liver, but whatever our killer is using them for, it must be something pretty big.” Dr Devonish gulped down some stagnant air, held her hands to her face and then rushed out of the room, ripping her gloves off as she went. Four pairs of concerned eyes followed her and Miss Brink raised an eyebrow.

“She’s never done that before. All this time I’ve been assisting her, not once has she been ill at the sight of a body.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Mr Cerise said. “You wouldn’t go into this job if you couldn’t handle it. You’d do something normal, like treating live people instead of the dead.”

They fell silent and Chris stuffed his hands into his large trouser pockets, searching the inside of the man with his eyes only. There was a large gap missing in the ribcage where the lungs had been stolen from, the cavity empty and allowing the air to chase in and out o the bones. He shuddered to think of how much pain the man must have been in, and hoped the identification process wouldn’t take too much longer. The one thing he found that took his mind off the injustice was at least giving the family the comfort of knowing what had occurred.

Although that wasn’t particularly comforting, especially when he had to inform a family that their son was dead. He wasn’t looking forward to that particular trip, and wondered whether he could get somebody else to do it instead. He didn’t think he could handle a mother’s tears this morning, not when his own wife was pregnant, hormonal, terrified and begging for his help.

“These wounds here, were they before or after death?” he inquired, nudging Miss Brink to fill the silence.

“I can’t be sure, but I would say after death. Not as much blood and it’s a lot less shaky. He didn’t need to worry about the victim making noise or getting in the way, so he could just get on with it.”

Everybody was killing the killer a ‘he’.

“In fact, this almost looks professionally done,” she continued, running her hands over the edge of the skin and pretending it was just leather, just an animal and not somebody she might have passed in the street. “I wouldn’t know unless it was stitched back up again, to see techniques and stuff, but this person must know what they’re doing.”

‘Not necessarily a doctor,’ Chris wrote in his notes, ‘but has researched it. Check facilities, library books, who’s taken out what?’

“Bit of bruising here on the chest. Maybe he was punched or something? Would have knocked the wind out of him, that’s for sure.”

Chris scrawled this down as well, flipping through the notes on the previous victims. None of the others had received blows like this, but this particular man was a bit larger. Perhaps he needed a bit more force to get him to the ground.

Dr Devonish returned looking flustered, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes still glistening with tears, and apologised for her abrupt exit, flapping her hands about as she cleaned up her gloves and asking Miss Brink why she hadn’t done it already, already back to her normal self and barking orders. Chris noticed his team smirking and shot them a look that shut them up.

“Should we turn the body over, yes?” she asked, her voice high and strained. “Then we can fingerprint.” The pair of them rolled the stiff body over so that the man was laying face down, the white sheet falling with him before they could rearrange it. The team snapped photos of every second, a flash constantly blinking in the corner of Chris’ eye. He had tried to train himself to ignore it but found his eyes watering as he tried to see what the doctors were looking at.

“So, we have another wound here, at the base of the spine, in the sacral division specifically,” she pointed out. “That probably would have paralysed the victim. Really painful, I suspect.” Chris winced as she continued, lightly bringing her hands down on the skin and trailing them down the spine, feeling for bruising. “You can see his skin here is slightly pinkish where the blood has pooled. Few bits of gravel stuck in his skin here. He was found lying down, yes? He died like that, too.”

She brushed the gravel off his back and continued in the impersonal manner, Miss Brink shrugging at Chris. She continued back up the body towards his head, feeling the scalp for anything unfamiliar. There was a bit of angry purplish bruising beginning to morph behind his ears and around his hairline, suggesting a serious fall to the ground. She told Chris this as she stroked the skin there and he began to try and fit a timeline together.

“Okay, so,” he began, checking off items on his notes as he listed them, “the killer comes up to him in the alley, stabs him in the back, punches him, this guys falls to the floor and gets cut open. The killer sneaks off with a bag full of lungs and nobody witnesses anything. Surely there are still pieces missing from this, right? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Killers don’t tend to make sense, from what I’ve heard,” Mr Cerise muttered, Chris looking up at him and squinting. He waved the thought away and shook his head.

“Okay, we need to identify this bloke and find his close ones. Maybe this will lead us to the killer. I’ve got to go and check out the crime scene to see if anything new comes up. You,” he pointed at Mr Cerise and his colleague, “take those photos back to the station and get them printed up. I want them in the office for everyone to piece together the situation.” A picture of his notes was snapped. “We’re going to find this killer before he takes anyone else.” He turned to stare at the body on the examination table, determination glowing in his eyes.

“Let’s fingerprint this bitch.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't come out as well as I'd hoped but I'm rushing through to try and catch up with my word count. July's half over and...yeah.

That Friday, Dominic was out at the bar with his mates again, laughing and drinking without a care in the world. The rich smell of alcohol tickled his nostrils and a familiar song was playing over the speakers, helping him to relax into the environment. They were all in the same boat here, desperate to get away from the workplace without turning into hermits. Yes, he was having a good time with his friends. That was until somebody mentioned Matthew, however.

“Hey, what happened to that bloke you disappeared with last week?” his mate Corey asked. “He seemed like your type. Didn’t he stay?” Dom shrugged, shifting in position so that his shoulders were stiff beneath his work shirt.

“It was just a one night thing,” Dom grunted, ordering another beer and swigging it quickly. Corey shared a sidelong glance with the other two who had joined them for the night, watching as Dom downed the pint and wobbled a little on his bar stool.

“Shame.” Dom nodded.

They paused in conversation, listening to the sounds of the bar from around them. The music seemed louder when they weren’t talking, thumping in Dom’s head and taking over his heartbeat. He could hear glasses clinking, the constant chatter of the other patrons blurring into one mass of noise. Unable to distinguish any English words from the noise, Dom got up, holding his arms victoriously in the air and trying not to spill the beer.

“Who wants to dance?” he yelled, his voice unnecessarily loud even over the din of the music. Corey shrugged, looking over at the dancefloor. It was still fairly early, so it wasn't crammed with bodies like he had known it to be previously, but it wouldn't harm him to start something off. He watched Dom skip over to the music player and switch the track to something dance-y, already making his way over to the floor and swaying his hips. Eyes trailed after him, watching the lean blonde as he waited for a friend to join him.

"You trying to pick up again tonight, then?" Corey said over the noise, almost shouting so that Dom could hear him. Dom nodded, shaking memories of his night with Matthew out of his mind in time with the bobbing of his head.

"Gonna go for a hot bird. Need a change of scene." Corey laughed at Dom's drunken swaying around on the floor, seeing other people joining their group out of the corner of his eye.

The night disappeared beneath their feet in a whirlwind of pumping noise and hands trailing over torsos, and Dom locked lips with at least five different beautiful women across the course of the night. However, when he eventually stumbled over the bar threshold that night, he was alone.

The air was cool that night, a sudden chill sweeping across the city in the midst of the heatwave. Dominic shivered and tugged his familiar leather jacket tightly around his chest, stumbling to the side as the action knocked him off his already compromised balance. He started to head blindly towards home, knowing the path like the back of his hand but still making wrong turns when his head betrayed him. He caught his foot on a rock and barely righted himself again before falling to the floor. The alcohol in his system fuzzed his brain.

Dominic did not notice that he was all alone on the street, nor did he remember that it wouldn't be safe to go through the alleyway to his flat when he knew that there was a serial murderer around. The darkness held him in its embrace, tendrils wrapping around his limbs. He did not notice that there were no lights or security cameras around, but somebody else had taken the time to realise this.

The figure was crouched in the shadows of the alleyway, watching as Dominic walked farther and farther away from him. He picked himself up from his position close to the ground and began to follow, nimbly dodging loose rubble so that his footsteps wouldn't make any sound. He barely noticed the rocks digging into his socked feet, so focused was he on his prize. And it was only five feet away from him...

Dominic stopped and paused, cocking his head as he strained to hear. The hairs on his arms rose as another cold breeze brushed through the alley and he scowled to himself, rubbing down his arms to try and generate some warmth. He began to walk again, looking around him to try and figure out where he was, and then stopped when he heard footsteps behind him.

 Of course they stopped as soon as he stopped. He licked his lips, feeling nervous tension rippling through his body as he clenched his fists. His inebriated state made him confrontational, and he kidded himself that he was able to fight an attacker. ‘Come at me!’ he wanted to yell, but something froze his lips together. Slowly, he began to turn around.

He could sense a figure behind him, could feel a shadow that shouldn't be there, could tell that something was going on. As Dominic began to turn, the killer saw his face. There was a pause as his thoughts raced, and his arm which had been held out straight and ready to work suddenly fell back down again in a moment of doubt.

He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected this at all.

His brain began to think up ways to get him out of this situation but his newfound hesitation infuriated him. Why should he wait just because he happened to know the man? It shouldn't make a difference, should it? His usual, ruthless behaviour shouldn't be compromised by a familiar pair of oversized ears and the sweet scent of alcohol on a breath he had once tasted. Wanted to taste more.

There was only one way.

In one sharp movement, he jabbed Dominic in the side with the short knife he was holding in his hands, wiggling it and cutting sharply to maximise the wound area. Dominic howled at the pain that shot through his body and stumbled away, clutching at his side as his assailant pulled the knife away.

"Oh my God, it's the killer," he gasped to himself, slowly sinking to his knees as he felt the pain begin to overwhelm him. There was another slash at his arm; he looked down to see the fabric torn, and out of the corner of his eye caught a shadow moving across the path. When he looked up, it was gone again.

Adrenaline finally kicked in to pair with the searing pain of his wounds and he picked himself back up again, beginning a feeble run towards the end of the alley. He was running in a half-formed crouch in an attempt to defend himself against further attacks, hiding his face in his shoulder as he traversed the gravel of the path. The end that opened onto his house was farther from him than where he had entered, but it also held a road full of people who would see him, and phones. Phones to call the police. Phones to call the hospital. Phones to get him to safety.

The fear coursing through his veins pushed his feet harder into the ground, forced him farther as he covered ground swiftly with a speed he hadn't known he possessed. He screamed as he felt the wound rip open wider as his torso swivelled in his run and cursed his attacker. The hidden man leapt out at him again, biting his tongue between his teeth as he lunged at Dominic again, the knife just missing the small of his back and instead scraping along his spine in an almost vertical line. Dominic shrieked, whipping around to face the man who dared to attack him. He was surely caught.

He felt his heart racing, felt it rise into his throat for the first time in years. Was he afraid of this man, this one who could throw him out and change everything? Not entirely. Yet he knew what he had to do. Vision sharp from the fear that spiked through his body, Matthew slipped into the shadows again, Dominic only detecting the slightest movement, and disappeared.

When he was sure he was alone, Dominic started running again, clutching at the wound in his side. His face screwed up in pain as his hands touched the tender site and he bit his lip to try and suppress his cries, drawing blood there. He reached his road, making his way there as he tripped over his own feet in his haste to get home.

He fumbled in the pocket of his torn jeans for his keys when he reached his flat, manoeuvring the door with one hand while the other remained pressed against his wound. He was able to feel warm liquid slipping between his fingers and gagged when he realised it was his own blood, gushing from the wound past his hand. He left a trail of shocking scarlet behind him as he made his way into his flat, not caring about the clattering noises or the mess he left in the shop below his abode.

As soon as he fell through the door, he flung himself towards the phone, landing on the floor with the phone between his desperate fingers. He shakily dialled 999 and waited impatiently for them to answer, coughing as he tried to search out his injuries, black spots dancing in front of his eyes and beckoning him into the soft darkness.

"Hello, Emergency Services, how can I help you?" a friendly but business-like voice buzzed from the phone, snapping him back to reality.

"H-Hi," he choked out, "um, I've...I've had a run in with someone, they tried to attack me."

"Have you been injured, sir?"

"Y-Yeah, yeah I have. Badly,” he self-assessed.

"Could you give me an address, please? An ambulance will be over shortly."

He relayed his address to the woman and then began to describe the encounter. She prompted him to try and remain conscious, asking if he would like the police to be with him when he went to the hospital. When she didn't receive a reply, she panicked, shouting down the line and crossing her fingers that the ambulance would get there faster. If she lost this one, it would be her second loss of the night. The thought was too much to bear.

 *

 Dominic woke up sporadically and at intervals, only to find himself ever more confused than he was the last time. Flashes of bright light and winces of pain breezed through his mind and left him swiftly as he sank into a dreamless unconsciousness, settling into the uncomfortable bed that he would later swear he could never sleep in. He lay passively in the bed for over twenty four hours, pumped full of fluid and hooked up to numerous monitors. A steady beep resonated throughout the room, and nobody passed through, leaving Dominic in peace.

When he eventually woke up, he was groggy despite so much rest. His sticky eyes prised themselves open, only to squeeze shut again when the piercing light hit them. He knew where he was immediately, so it came as no surprise that he couldn't move his arm due to an IV being stuck into his flesh. He peered down from where his head was elevated on the scratchy pillows to see the wire coming out of his hand, his stomach lurching and his eyes following the wire as it looped up to a machine beside his bed. Fluid dripped steadily through the tube, trickling down into his body.

He swallowed and continued to observe his surroundings. He felt strange, as though his abdomen was disconnected from his legs, yet both of them had feeling. He wanted to peer under the covers to assess the damage but did not want to disrupt the wires that had been carefully slipped inside of him, instead waiting for a nurse like a good little patient.

A ruddy-faced woman popped her head through the door, eyes wide with surprise when she saw Dominic staring back at her with a small smile, and beckoned another nurse in. The new woman changed his IV while she introduced herself, clapping her hands together, her round face lit up by a wide grin and cheeks shiny like polished apples. He couldn’t help but smile back at her.

"I'm Nurse Angie," she said, her voice just as cheerful as she looked, "I've been looking after you for the past day or so."

"I've been out for a day already?" Dom asked incredulously, his pale eyebrows inching up his forehead. She nodded solemnly.

"You were terribly injured, sweetie. Do you remember what happened?" He nodded.

"Y-yeah, I remember...the alley? I remember the alleyway and," he paused, trying his best to remember the moment. While he was in the alley itself, he had been able to see with stunning clarity, had been able to hear what he shouldn't hear and sense what he shouldn't sense. This was the first time he had been able to tell anybody the full story of what had happened, so it was necessary to build a full tale for her. What had happened? What had he seen?

"It's all a bit of a blur, really," he confessed sadly. Her face fell.

"I don't suppose you have any idea who the attacker was, then, or have anything you could give to the police?" He shook his head, biting his lip as the guilt sunk onto his shoulders.

"I'm really sorry. I was a bit too focused on the pain in my side to pay much attention. I wish I had seen at least one thing, but I keep coming up blank." Shadows swarmed through his mind, memories of his breath whooshing through his lungs so fast that it hurt, of tasting his own blood and feeling his pulse thrum in his neck. He remembered staring into the darkness and his skin prickling because he had absolutely no idea where the attack would come from next, could barely stand on his own two feet.

He wasn't even sure if it even was a figure. He'd never believed in the supernatural, but he couldn't understand how a human could have remained totally invisible from him. He had to have seen something, and yet his mind was still completely blank.

"It's alright, sweet, don't fret over it." She placed her hand on Dominic's forearm, the one without the IV tube, and he managed a weak smile for her. "Can I get you anything? Food, drink?"

"A glass of water would be great, thank you." She nodded and rushed off to fetch it, the other nurse having left during their conversation. Dom brought his hands up over the covers, locking them together and twisting them as he let the guilt settle in its new home.

And then he thought about how lucky he was to be alive. He remembered the feeling of his blood pouring out, of a knife twisting his insides and tearing him up. And he remembered feeling the terror of all the citizens sitting at home, waiting for the killer to turn up on the doorstep and steal the ones they love. His lucky escape was miraculous, he realised, sensing the painkillers beginning to fade away as his injury made itself known like alarm bells.

Dominic spent the rest of the day in a daze, retreating into his mind and ignoring the nurses when they came to change his dressing. He barely flinched at the pain, his eyes unfocused and his mind elsewhere. He stared into the corner of the room and simply allowed himself just to lie there, occasionally jerking around due to discomfort but otherwise continuing to remain mute and, seemingly, deaf.

“Dominic, c’mon, love, please answer me,” Angie tried to coax some life out of him when she brought dinner. He blinked at her, looking down at the tray and wrinkling his nose up in distaste. She laughed. “It’s the best we can get you, unless you want to pay for cafe food, which isn’t that much better, really.”

He picked up the plastic fork, holding it limply in his hand and scowling at the IV in his skin, squinting so that he couldn’t see it. He stabbed what looked like a potato and brought it to his lips. It was piping hot and scalded his tongue, but it tasted like nothing. He chewed tentatively, eyeing the rest of the meal suspiciously. If the potatoes didn’t taste of anything, he wasn’t sure he wanted to try the meat.

“Not so bad, is it?”

“Yeah...” he muttered.

“Oh, thank goodness! I thought you’d forgotten how to talk for a moment there.” He frowned, slowly eating another potato. “Patients sometimes disappear a little bit after they’ve come in. Changes them a bit, even when they come back to us. We don’t want to lose you here.” He nodded, not really paying attention to what she was saying.

She drew up a chair from the corner, the metal of the legs squealing as it was scraped across the vinyl flooring. She sat in it, resting her hands on her knees and watching Dominic eat.

“We’re going to have to move you into the general ward tomorrow, is that okay?” she asked him, watching his face for any betrayal of contempt. He nodded.

“That’s fine.” His voice was steady; stable.

“You won’t have much privacy there, I’m afraid, but we’ll be needing this room for other patients, so-“ He cut her off.

“Other victims? Has he got someone else?” Dom dropped his fork onto the plate, staring at her with a furious flush in his cheeks. She reached for his clenched fist and started to pull the fingers into a relaxed position, the rise in the heart monitor shocking her into action.

“No, no, don’t worry. It’ll be other things, you know? Not all injuries are from murderers.” She gave a small, emotionless laugh and he relaxed, returning to his dinner. There was a break in conversation as Dominic poked the meat with the end of the fork and began to eat it, shoulders falling when it was as tasteless as the veg.

“There’s something else,” she added when he was nearly finished. “The police are here; they want to ask you a few questions about your experience. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t particularly want to speak to the police, knowing that his lack of memory would be unhelpful and that would only add to the burdens he was carrying. He hadn’t had many experiences of the police, being a law-abiding citizen and never getting into trouble, but he knew that would change now that he was an important part of their investigation. How many survivors had there been? Was it possible that he was the only one who had got away?

“Okay. They’re waiting outside just now, so I’ll tell them five minutes and then they’ll speak to you, alright? You’ll be fine, sweet.”

_Does she think I’m a child?_ He grumbled to himself, but he couldn’t help the corners of his lips twitching up at the attention.

He finished his ‘meal’ and she took the tray away, adjusting his pillows so that he could sit up higher. He raked a hand through his hair, shuddering when he felt greasy strands. She laughed, claiming, “You look fine, love,” and then had to hurry off to help another patient. Dom drummed his fingers on his stomach beneath the thin sheets, tapping out a beat that vaguely represented his erratic heartbeat when fighting off the attacker. As he tapped, his heart monitor sped up, jumping around unevenly to match his hands.

He didn’t notice the police officer watching him from the doorway until he looked up and saw a large figure standing there, his eyes trained on Dominic’s hands. Dom started, whipping his hands from the sheets to cross them over his chest, nibbling his lip as the man slowly walked into the room. His heavy footfalls came closer until he was right up near the bed, and Dom craned his neck to see him properly.

“Detective Inspector Chris Wolstenholme,” the man announced, holding out a hand for Dominic to take. His grip was strong and warm, Dom feeling as though his hand was protected within the grasp. “You’re Dominic Howard, yes?” Dom nodded and watched Chris make himself comfortable in the chair where Angie had been sat. He didn’t look as intimidating when he was sat down. In fact, taking away his imposing height, he looked like a friendly bloke. Dom wondered whether he’d seen him around before.

“How are you feeling, Dominic?” He shrugged.

“Not great,” he answered honestly. “I’d rather be elsewhere.” Chris’ straight lips wavered for a moment.

“Do you need anything?”

“Nah, I’ve just had dinner.” Chris nodded.

“Okay. If you need the nurse at all during our conversation, I can get her for you if you want.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Right.” Chris let his hands fall with a light slap into his lap. He pulled his notepad out of his jacket pocket, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions about your experience. Don’t feel you have to answer if it distresses you too much, but all your answers will be useful in helping us find the culprit. We don’t have many leads,” he said truthfully, “and you’re the only one who’s been in contact with our killer and survived.”

Dom swallowed, the weight that had settled on his shoulders wiggling about and digging into his skin to remind him of its presence in the conversation.

“Okay.” Chris cleared his throat. “Could you please give me an account of what happened the night you were attacked? Don’t worry about forgetting details; I’ll ask those questions later.”

“Um, well, it was Friday night. I was walking home from the pub, a bit drunk and stuff. It was really dark so I couldn’t see much. And I have to go through an alley to get to my house.”

“You didn’t think that might be a bad idea?” Chris sighed to himself, shaking his head. When they’d brought Dom in, they’d found his blood full of alcohol. He wondered whether he would have avoided danger if only he’d been more responsible.

“Well, no, not at the time. Not until it was too late.” How many times had he heard that phrase? “It’s the alley to get onto Pen Street, you know? I live there so I had to go up there to get to it.”

“And that was where you were attacked?”

“Yes. I was nearly halfway down the alley when I thought something felt strange. Like, I don’t know, maybe it was fear getting to me or something, but I started to walk faster because I was getting scared.” Dom swallowed nervously, scratching the back of his neck and getting the IV stuck behind his ear. He grumbled but was glad for the brief distraction. “And then he just stabbed me. In the side.”

Dom pulled the covers away from his body, hoping to see the wound and its dressing, but his body was covered by the pale green hospital gown. He felt his side through the fabric, the gauze of his dressing raised from his skin.

“Right there,” he mumbled, poking it and then gasping. “It really hurt.” Chris watched, knowing it would be wrong to interrupt when he was thinking about the night, able to see the fear in the way he was hunched over and staring at the area. “And then...God! I can’t remember. I just remember feeling dizzy, like, on fire or something. It was so, _so_ painful. And the guy was, like, still going. But I couldn’t see him at all.”

“You’re sure it’s a male?” Chris asked, his pen poised on the paper ready to scribble down all of Dom’s account. The blonde shook his head.

“Not entirely. I couldn’t see much, but it felt like a man. That’s not much to go on, I know. But it really did feel like one. Anyway, then he slashed me a bit more and I turned around to try and get a look at him, maybe fight him off or something. I’m not sure what I was thinking, because I surely would have died. But then there was nothing at all. It was like he had vanished into thin air. So I started to run.”

“And you definitely didn’t see the man at all? No evidence you can give to us?” Dom shook his head sadly.

“I’m so sorry. I really wish I’d seen him properly so that I could be of some use to you, because you probably won’t get much of a chance again. But I really wasn’t looking at him. I was just trying to get out.” Dom shook his head faster and faster, screwing his eyes shut. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you.”

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it! It would be helpful if you had something, but don’t blame yourself. I’m glad you got out.” Dom nodded, but he didn’t believe a word Chris said.

The inspector got up from the chair with a creak, holding out his hand again. He noticed that Dom’s grip was significantly weaker than it had been earlier and considered calling the nurse in for him.

“I might be back in a few days to ask you some more and check over your injuries. You shouldn’t be here much longer, I don’t think, but you’ll have to ask your nurses for full details.”

“Right.” Dom’s replies were brusque as he began to withdraw himself again.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Dominic. I’ll be in touch.”

As he reached the door, Dom called out, “Do you have any idea why he let me go?” with a touch of desperation to his voice. Chris brought his eyes to Dominic’s, staring into the wide grey and wishing he could help.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re just lucky.”


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later and Dominic’s wounds were healing up nicely. Mr Wolstenholme hadn’t returned, but he’d sent a team in his name to examine Dominic and compare his wounds to those of the other victims. He noticed that the weapon appeared to create the same gaping wound when stabbed, but the slashes on his back and arm were hard to compare, as he hadn’t been so sloppy with those that were dead. He’d clearly done a better job with them than Dominic, but this one had fought back.

All they had to do was figure out why. Why didn’t he go for the same places he’d fought with those that he’d killed when he knew they would work? Had he only been trying to scare Dominic or had he slipped up?

The team thanked Dominic and left him in peace. He’d had some tubes taken out now that he was healing, and he relaxed a bit more in bed. Instead of sleeping the entire time, he often read books, and was provided with the newspaper in the morning. It was passed around the ward for everybody to have a look at, but many of the other patients were still sleeping throughout the day. Therefore, he could pick it up and read it whenever he liked.

It was Monday morning and The Star had just put out its weekly issue. The front page was, unsurprisingly, about the killer.

‘Boston Terror Strikes Again’ the headline screamed, Tom Kirk’s article beginning beneath it. Dom stroked the page, the large, inky picture of a question mark glaring at him. A question mark because he had been more focused on himself then the killer. He pulled his finger away, staring at the ink that came away on his finger. Rubbing the tips together, he cringed at the feeling of the ink sliding and passing over his skin until it coated all the tops of his fingers.

He held his hand out in front of him, examining the black tips, and before he realised what he was doing, pressed them down on the white sheet covering him. Tiny black smudges were left on the fabric, and he continued to paint with the ink on his hands. Ink started to bleed further into the fabric, forming squiggles on the sheet in front of his eyes. He stared at it then, pulling his hands away to watch as the ink stains grew and consumed the dirty sheets, morphing into the darkness of the alley and a glint of something in the corner of his eyes, the weapon rushing towards him from the depths of the night.

His throat closed up as he felt panic starting to rise, the darkness pouring in through his mouth and filling him from the inside, poisoning him. He needed to get it out, needed to purge himself of the sickness.

Dominic screamed suddenly, his breath forcing its way out through his choked throat as the ink trails laced themselves up his arms. The other patients in the ward were woken up and grumbled as they stared at Dom from their beds, and Angie rushed in hurriedly, shaking Dom in his bed when she reached him. He panicked, lashing out at her and kicking his feet.

“Get it off me! Get it away, _no_ , please!” he cried hoarsely, anguished screams still leaving him involuntarily.

“Dominic, look at me,” she whispered, touching his arms and gently lowering them to rest on the bed. “Dominic, you’re safe here, there’s nobody hurting you, you’re safe.”

He was still hyperventilating, his eyes wide and dirty sheets fallen haphazardly to the floor. Another nurse scooped them up and shot him a suspicious glance before carrying them away to be washed. Angie rested a hand on Dom’s forehead to check his temperature.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something,” she mumbled to herself. An illness would be extremely difficult for the ward to cope with, especially in this heat, but she also had a fondness for Dominic that she didn’t harbour towards the other patients. She felt sorry for him because of what happened and wanted to make it her duty to protect him and keep him from further harm.

Once his breathing had slowed down, she knelt down to his level and made him look her in the eyes. They had lost the wild, feral look they’d held a moment ago, and she relaxed in his presence once more.

“Honey, what’s up?” He shook his head, hands trembling in hers.

“I panicked. I messed up, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you be sorry.”

“You should be sorry,” an older patient called from the other side of the room. “I’ve been prescribed bed rest and I won’t get it if you keep making such a racket.”

“Sorry,” Dom squeaked back meekly, but Angie shushed him gently.

“Don’t listen to him, okay? We want you to be comfortable here. Yes, I’d rather you didn’t cry out and end up screaming, but don’t let them bully you.” He nodded at Angie’s words, and she smiled at him. “You still haven’t told me what was wrong.”

He paused and stared at the sheets where they had pooled on the floor, scanning it for the fingerprints and then trying to find the dark patches he’d seen earlier. All he could see was white on white on white, the blankness troubling him perhaps more than the ink had. He knew he couldn’t tell her what he’d seen.

_Besides_ , Dom thought to himself, _I’m on medication or something. I know it was a hallucination. Crazy people don’t know these things_. Dom didn’t question why his mind immediately jumped there, instead sighing and whispering, “I had a nightmare,” releasing his held breath when she gasped and rubbed his head.

“Hey, hey.” Her voice was soothing and he felt calm almost immediately, knowing that her soft presence in the room shouldn’t have relaxed him like it did. She felt almost like a mother but without the harshness of a woman teaching the rights and wrongs of the world. “Don’t worry, okay? I know that’s hard, but you’re safe here on the ward with us. We won’t let this guy get to you, no matter how much you think he might. He can’t get through our security. We’d spot him immediately.”

He knew that she was wrong but, for some reason, he was content to accept it.

Tom Kirk was fairly proud of his article, it was safe to say. After struggling to think of anything to write, he had condensed his ‘interview’ of the police offer into a two-page article, advising readers what to do in the situation and even adding in a cheeky pun that he’d bragged about to Morgan for the rest of the week.

'Our killer will go for anybody,' he had written with fear shaking his fingertips, fear of the murderer and fear of his boss, 'so, unfortunately, you can't consider yourself safe just because you don't fall into a pattern. Each and every one of you is at risk.' Tom had gone on to list safety precautions that he'd bought from a friend of his in a neighbouring police department. He knew that the nearby towns and cities were also under careful surveillance, and his friend was not as willing as usual to lend him information. The tense, strained tone to his voice told him that perhaps the killer wasn't as local as he'd thought. Maybe that meant help was coming up from London. Maybe that meant a solution.

He couldn't help letting the optimistic thoughts dance around his head. Morgan had always groaned at his idealistic personality, his hopes and dreams sweeping him away into thoughts of the future and the light at the end of the tunnel. Tom saw it as a gift, however, having seen so many people plagued by their own pessimism. When he had turned in the article on Friday, not knowing that Dominic Howard would be attacked later that night to provide him with the perfect material for his next article, he had simply crossed his fingers and reassured himself that his article was of a high standard and his usual quality. After his boss had published it and the word about Dominic had spread through the public like wildfire (to which he was oblivious, mostly thanks to the security and secrecy of the hospital), he knew where his path would take him.

He just didn't know how hard it would be to get an interview with a hospital patient when a murderer was lurking.

Detective Inspector Christopher Wolstenholme had also read the article and scowled at the content. He hadn’t found the reporter after that day, so he had no idea what had been revealed to him. _Clearly too much_ , he noted grimly after reading it. Although the information was presented under a shroud of confusion, it was still enough to scare the public into a state that wouldn’t be safe. He didn’t believe in the method of allowing people to choose how they react; he didn’t trust the public not to panic and run riot.

His conference with the rest of the force also hadn’t gone as swimmingly as he’d hoped, which only irritated him further. He had hoped that his employees might have decided a bit of co-operation would be helpful in such a dire situation, but no. Apparently they didn’t want to be of much use to him, and when he cleared his throat to begin the meeting and wasn’t automatically greeted with attentive silence, he started to think of ways he could improve his force. Perhaps it was time to hire a few new recruits.

Of course it had to take brutal murders to reveal that to him. _Of course._

They had sorted out the pin board and surrounding whiteboards, taking over most of the station and dedicating it to the search for this killer. There were pictures of the crime scenes and various notes taped all over the walls, some from the autopsies and others that people had added over the past few days. Long pieces of string linked each picture and its related information into one large, blank section in the centre of the board. Here they had nothing to go on, nothing to know, nothing to talk about; that was what plagued them most.

Each person was assigned a role, over which they fought and started petty arguments. Some people didn’t want to be working 24/7 in the offices while others were uncomfortable with knocking on doors to ask for witnesses. All the plans Chris had made were overturned, each person seemingly wanting the opposite of what he had assigned them to. He ended up sat with his head in his hands in the corner of the room while they bickered childishly, wondering why the hell he had ever signed up for this job and dreaming of pleasant Sundays at home with the family. He had been hoping to get the barbeque out for the heatwave, but he knew he was going to be busy with work for the next few weeks, by which point the sun would have retreated for the year. Damn typical.

Still, things had finally settled down, and people were starting to go to work. He’d been to supervise the search for witnesses and suspicious information before, watching over those doing the job to make sure everything was secure. He fetched the list of people who had borrowed books on medicine, but he hadn’t found anything particularly useful by that morning. Nobody had revealed anything unusual, but he had noticed a tension rippling through the community that wasn’t usually present. Everybody just seemed terrified, struck by horror.

Not that this article would help. He screwed it up and chucked the ball of newspaper across the room, only to sigh and get up from the chair, ignoring the creak as he retrieved the article. He smoothed it out and pinned it to the board of suspects-currently empty-hoping that something would be revealed. Peering at Tom Kirk’s name at the beginning of the article, he made a mental note to watch out for the columnist. Perhaps he could ask him a few questions about any information that he hadn’t decided to share. Make it seem like he had chanced across him in the bar or something.

_Yeah, I can be cunning, you bet_ , Chris boasted internally, puffing his chest out and then checking the doorway for anybody who might see him.

On the other side of town, Dr Matthew James Bellamy was sat in his study. He too was reading The Star, and he had the large pages folded halfway over to hide the question mark. It teased him and infuriated him; knowing that they would never know who the killer was both exciting and annoying. He wanted the praise for his deeds, wanted to be told how good he was at hiding. The only thing stopping him from bragging about how splendid a job he had done with the last man he killed was the fact that telling anybody about it would lead to his being locked up, and then he'd be deprived of all the things he loved. Such as the glorious glass of red wine he was currently savouring.

Then again, he reminded himself, the last one got away. He scowled at the thought of Dominic, wishing he hadn't been so foolish. It could be the piece of the puzzle that the police managed to fit into place and then find out who he was. The only way to stop it would be to mangle the puzzle piece so that it wouldn't fit and pretend the dog ate it. It wasn’t a foreign tactic.

He unfolded the newspaper and began to read Tom Kirk's article, smiling to himself at all the things that were wrong about him. _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ he listed in his head, _maybe right, definitely right, wrong again._ The sheets of paper were pinched between his fingertips so that he didn’t get coated in ink, and he heard an insistent growling coming from his stomach.

‘We only know one thing for sure,’ Tom said, finishing off his article with the only information he had received. ‘There is one thing missing: the soul of this vicious killer.’ There was no discernible change in Matthew’s expression as he folded the newspaper over and fingered the edges, still rereading that sentence over and over. The smile still spread across his face, he left the newspaper in his seat and went to tend to his kitchen.

The kitchen was large and roomy, giving Matthew enough room to move around as freely as he liked, occasionally indulging in a dance alone to the music. He had a record player in the corner of the room that he treasured, having found it in an antiques shop after so many years of fruitless searching. He selected a record at random and placed it on the table, setting the needle as it began to spin. He recognised Debussy, pausing and closing his eyes as he let the music consume his senses. He loved the impressionist pieces because it gave him the chance to create his own stories. He could be elsewhere, doing other things. Whatever he pleased.

_Although_ , he reminded himself, opening his eyes to look around the glossy kitchen, _the task at hand is not exactly one I don’t look forward to._

Usually reserving his clients for late in the afternoon, Matthew had the entire morning to himself, and his private time was very carefully organised so that he could enjoy it to the fullest. With the gentle piano music reverberating off the cream walls and tiles, he pulled his ingredients from the sleek fridge in the corner of the room, laying them out on the island that graced the middle of the floor. He lifted the packet of bacon he’d purchased to his nose and sniffed it, nibbling the inside of his cheek when it was not perfect. He usually procured all of his meat by other means, but this week he hadn’t had the chance.

Cursing his bad luck, he began to prepare his meal, although his lips were turned down slightly at the corners. He cracked three eggs into a ceramic bowl, hands caressing the vine pattern that was engraved into the surface. Pulling the whisk from the collection of utensils he had placed in a decorative vase in the corner of the island, he set to beating the eggs. One arm was cradling the bowl as if it were a child, the other vigorously whipping the eggs, the muscles in his arms straining. Matthew didn’t exercise much, but cooking turned out to be a good enough workout for him as well as being an impressive way of channelling anger, and the muscles of his arms were lean, hiding a surprising strength.

Sprinkling the necessary herbs and spices to season the mixture, he tipped the contents of the bowl into the saucepan that had been resting on the hob, savouring the sizzle as it hit the heat. There was an almost elegant movement to his cooking, seen in the way he leaned back and swiped the drips of egg mixture from the rim of the bowl with one slender finger, lifting it to his lips and sucking it off slowly. He stirred the mixture with his other hand, evenly spreading the mixture throughout the pan so that it was covered without air bubbles.

Matthew took immense pride in his cooking. He knew that he was good at it-as he was at most things-and enjoyed inviting his close acquaintances over to share a meal with him. He cooked with a giddy freedom, and as he briefly left the pan to tend to the bacon, his movements were light. He sprung across the room, pulling a thick knife from the large selection, stroking the metal and peering at his own reflection. He ran the sharp point over his finger, breaking the skin so that a small bead of ruby blood welled up before he could lick it up.

He sliced the bacon thinly and laid them in the other saucepan beside the sizzling mixture, the bacon crackling under the heat and spitting at him. He felt the hot oil land on his skin and sucked at it before running his wrist under the cold water tap, still observing his cooking from the other side of the kitchen.

Everything seemed to happen at once, then.

The kettle came to the boil with a roar and Matthew spun away from the sink to pour it into the waiting cup, leaving the teabag to brew as he pulled the bacon from the saucepan. Ignoring the stinging feeling of his fingertips burning, he crumbled the slices and let the pieces fall into the egg mixture, what was left of the animal disappearing into his meal. Just as it should be. The order of the world dictates that the weak become meat, and Matthew knew this all too well. His meals certainly weren’t as strong as he was, he thought to himself, his smirk making its second appearance of the day.

A few more stirs of the mixture and he fished the teabag from his cup, pouring in just a dash of milk. He watched as the milk curled into the dark water, colouring it as the two liquids fused together and became one. He had planned to wait until he was sat at his place at the table before drinking his tea, but temptation was too difficult to resist, and he sipped at the tea, letting out a deep, pleasured sigh.

When the omelette was ready, he tipped it out of the pan onto one of his china plates, carrying it into the dining room and setting it on his placemat at the end of the long, mahogany table. The mat is knitted from the finest wool. The cutlery has elegant handles and is polished to perfection. In the middle of the table, a single rose rested in another vase, one which he had inherited from a distant relative. Its delicate, blood red petals were facing him, and he could smell its sweet scent over the aroma of his omelette.

He sat down in the high-backed chair, holding his knife and fork and testing their weight, just as he did before every meal. He loved the feeling of the cool metal against warm palms, loved the first stab of the fork into his food as he really felt it for the first time. He cut a piece off the end of the piping hot omelette and placed it in his mouth, steam curling from within and rising skyward.

He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the chair, relaxing as he finished the first bite of his meal. Yes, he had done himself proud. Again.

Still, it was missing that one flavour. Something just wasn’t quite right about this particular meal this morning, and as he finished off his pleasant but not entirely fantastic omelette, he decided that something would need to be done about it. After all, he couldn’t just sit around and wait for something to come to him, nor would he stand for having to suffer this. He marked the date in his internal calendar and began to prepare for his next hunt.

What would he need in terms of supplies, and where could he get them? He was fairly new to the area and still hadn’t searched around the entire town, despite it only being small and uninteresting, so he would need to have a little sneak around. He debated whether to introduce himself to the community; would they be more likely to suspect him or less likely?

Perhaps if he turned up to a social gathering just to let them all know that he didn’t care about them, then they wouldn’t talk about the house at the end of the road. He knew from experience that people would talk when a young man living alone didn’t get involved in the livelihood of the city. He hadn’t stayed in one place much before, which had allowed him to get away with his...unusual ways of procuring his food. Living and making his life in Boston was a new challenge from him, something that he was both looking forward to and nervous of.

Still, he enjoyed a challenge, and he would take on board whatever came his way. He had deliberately selected this area so that he could get away with a lot. DI Wolstenholme hadn’t looked too scary on his Wikipedia page, and the town had suffered a few suspicious incidents over time. _Nothing quite like this, though_ , he remarked with yet another smirk, licking his lips free of the last of his omelette.

Back in the hospital ward, and Dominic had fallen into a rut. His wounds were healing well, and the nurses were hoping to release him the following morning. They had arranged a few appointments in the weeks that came after for Dominic to return and be checked over, but were overall fairly confident that he would settle in well to his normal routine once more.

Dominic himself, however, wasn’t so sure of his own safety. No, Dominic didn't feel safe here. No matter how hard the nurses tried to make him feel at home, and no matter how much better the food was when he decided to buy it from the cafe downstairs instead of suffering the usual gloop, he still didn't quite sink into the bed like he did at home. Everything was off, like they were trying so hard to protect him that they forget he was human.

'I'm not going to break!' he wanted to tell them. 'I'm strong enough to deal with this. You can do whatever you want to me. I survived a murder attack, didn't I?' But even as he declared it to himself, he could hear the instability in his voice, could feel his hands trembling just at thought of his near-miss.

The thought of going back home, to the blood splatters on the floor and the dark alley he used to get to work terrified him in ways he had never imagined, and he dreaded his return.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dominic shot up in the bed, the sheets sticking to his clammy skin. Gasping for breath, he sat up shakily, running a hand through his hair and finding it damp near the roots. His whole body trembled as he surveyed the area around him, the darkened ward almost silent but for the sounds of the nurses working around the beds. He knew he was safe here.

He sighed to himself, peeling the sheets from him to reveal the soaked hospital gown, patches of sweat decorating it across his chest and his back. He shuddered, goosebumps rising on his arms as he wondered why exactly he'd woken up like this. He couldn't remember anything, couldn't think of what he had been scared about. Dismissing it as a nightmare about his murderer, he got up from the bed, slipping over the side and grabbing his IV to steady himself. He traipsed over to the bathroom, the IV wheeling along beside him and squeaking to alert anybody of his presence, waking up several people on the ward in the process.

The light was harsher in the tiny bathroom, and as he stood flush against the wall and peered at his face with bloodshot eyes, he scowled and hoped that tomorrow he would be released. He had realised that they would let him go as long as he seemed on the mend and stable, so he would have to do everything he could to convince them that he was mentally free and able to leave. Despite his fears, he didn't think he could stand it on the ward any longer. All the grumpy people bugged him, and he was desperately missing his home comforts. He had been there for four days already, so he felt that he was about ready to leave. Surely he was prepared enough now, right?

He snatched some tissue from the roll of paper and dabbed at his chest beneath the gown, screwing his nose up at the wetness there. He hadn't showered since the morning of the attack, and the heatwave meant that he didn’t smell particularly pleasant at that moment. The first thing he would do when he got back home would be to relax in his shower-which was the same size as the entire hospital bathroom- and let the jets of cool water wash him clean. Hopefully he could wash away his bad memories, too.

He gave his reflection one long, last look in the mirror, shuddering at the deep violet bags under his eyes. His skin appeared as though it was sagging, and Dominic could almost see himself growing old in a matter of seconds, his messy blonde hair thinning and his frail body leaning against the wall to brace itself, weakness eating away at his bones. Horrified, he rose a hand to his face and touched the skin there, holding his breath as he felt the smoothness of his cheeks, interrupted only by rough stubble from lack of time to look after his appearance. With a final shiver running down his spine, he shook himself out of that state, watching himself closely in the mirror and paying attention to the way his body moved, still active even when injured. He didn’t take his eyes off his own body in the glass until the door was firmly shut, the automatic light shutting off.

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Come morning and the nurses were again milling around and preparing him for his discharge. He had seen a few of them in the early hours of the morning, ignoring their attempts to coax him to sleep, and said a sleepy, “Hello,” when they greeted him again in the morning. Nobody mentioned his bathroom escapade, so he assumed he was free to go and sat up in bed with his hands folded, patiently waiting for Corey to turn up with a change of clothes.

However, Angie was sat at the nurses’ desk looking over her schedule for the day and nursing a cup of tea when she asked about Dominic’s departure.

“Oh, he’s an odd one, isn’t he?” one of her fellow nurses remarked with raised eyebrows.

“He has been through a very tough time,” Angie reminded her, defending Dominic, even though she knew his reaction was quite out of the ordinary.

“I know, but he just isn’t dealing well with it at all. He got up for the bathroom at three AM and was in there for twenty minutes. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t even use it, so what was he doing in there?”

“Primping?” They tittered and Angie sipped at her tea to smother her giggles. “I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to be away from everyone else.”

“I don’t know, Angie. What was that fuss about the other day with sheets and the screaming?”

She set down her mug, turning the page to make some patient-specific notes.

“I’m not sure. He passed it off as a nightmare, but I’m not entirely sure I believe him.”

“You see! Even you can tell something’s off, and everyone can see that he’s your favourite. I-”

Angie smacked her arm playfully, scoffing, “I don’t have favourites!” incredulously.

“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted,” her friend continued with a teasing glint to her eyes, “I think maybe we should keep him monitored.”

“We’ve already set dates for check-ups for the next month or so, though.”

“Not just physically. Like...psychologically. He’s a mess, Angie, and we all know it.” She sighed and accepted that, running a hand through her hair and tying it into a neat bun as she prepared to begin the day by welcoming Corey onto the ward.

“Do you know anybody that would take him? The NHS won’t do it until he’s diagnosed. _If_ he’s diagnosed.”

“I’m sure a bit of searching would find somebody willing to see him. I suppose it all depends on how willing Dominic is, and whether he knows he’s developing a problem or not.” Angie hummed in agreement and nodded, smoothing down her scrubs and walking to the ward entrance. She could see a man waiting there, peering through the little window in the door. She typed the code into the lock and swung the door open, instructing him to wash his hands before entering the ward. He then followed Angie into the main area, where she led him to Dom.

It was strange to see his friend lying in the bed, prone and exhausted from lack of sleep. Dom was athletic and lively, always the life of the party and active from the minute he got up in the morning. The dramatic change came as a huge shock to him, and he peered at the plaster Dom had slapped on the back of his hand from where the IV had been removed. He didn’t ask about the main wound.

“Hey, Dom!” he greeted him cheerfully, Dom sitting up in bed and offering him a wave. Corey rolled his eyes and ducked down to the bed level, wrapping his arms around Dom’s broad shoulders and patting him on the back in an awkward man-hug. Dom smile into his shoulder and released him, holding out his hands to accept the clothes that had been brought for him. “So, how are you doing right now?”

“Great, man, I’m doing swell,” Dom said, rolling his eyes at his own sarcastic tone. Corey gave a tight smile.

“Right. Of course. Do you...should I just let you get dressed?” Dom thanked him and got out of the bed, holding his hospital gown closed at his back. Corey couldn’t help but laugh lightly at Dom’s desperation to retain his dignity, even when injured. He also noticed how he leaned slightly to the left, and his gait was slow and shaky. He struggled with the heavy bathroom door and Corey shook his head at his friend’s misfortune. Hopefully he’d be back to his normal self within a few days otherwise things were going to get difficult.

Dom stood in the bathroom as he had done the night before and unfolded the clothes, recognising a T-shirt he’d been given from a charity run and a pair of old cut-off jeans. He stripped off the hospital gown and threw it into the corner of the bathroom, glad to be rid of the sickly green fabric, and then caught sight of his torso in the mirror.

What was usually lean, tanned skin was now paler and weak. He turned to the side, staring at himself at an angle, and could see the dressing covering his wound on the side of his body, the surgical tape wrapping around him to secure it tightly. The large laceration in his arm was sewn up with sutures, but he could still see the angry scarlet gash working its way up his arm. When he touched his fingers to it gently, the skin was tender and he winced slightly.

He pulled the shirt over his head to cover up his wounds, glad that he couldn’t see much of them or else he’d feel queasy again. He relished the feeling of soft cotton brushing against his skin after the awful polyester gown and stroked the fabric between his fingers with a smile. After pulling on his trousers, he looked into his own eyes and forced a smile onto his face. It was only a shadow of his usual sunny grin, but it was enough to fool those who didn’t know him. With his familiar clothes and usual I-couldn’t-care-less posture, he almost felt like a normal person again.

He exited the bathroom with the gown bundled up in his arms and a nurse took it from him to put it in the wash. Corey looked as though he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Dom looking vaguely normal and Dominic wondered how he had appeared to those around him for the past four days. A flush of warmth rose in his cheeks as he thought about his screaming episode; he would have to avoid doing something silly like that again.

He made his bed, ignoring Corey when he told him that it would only be stripped to be washed anyway, and then waved at the other patients. Only two of the eight in the room were awake, one of them being the old man who had grumbled at him the other day. He didn’t return Dom’s wave, instead burying his nose in the book and making a point of ignoring him. Dom huffed and disappeared to thank the nurses for looking after him, Corey awkwardly lingering behind.

When he reached Angie, instead of proffering his hand, he opened his arms and welcomed her in an embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he whispered, “and for sticking up for me.”

“It’s my job,” she laughed, pulling away from him and nodded with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Well, you did an excellent job at it and I’m really grateful for that.”

“So...I’ll see you at your check-up later this week then, yes?” He nodded and held his hand up to wave. As he stepped away, however, she called, “Dominic?”

He turned back to face her and she cursed internally. She hadn’t meant to call him, knowing that it was a stupid idea, but she couldn’t dismiss it as nothing now. Preparing herself for rejection, she asked, “I know this sounds odd but, would you...want to go out some time?”

Shocked, Dom’s eyebrows inched their way up to his hairline.

“Um, do you mean, like a date?”

“Well, not necessarily. That’d be nice,” she added quickly, “but if you...I mean, just, whatever you want.” His lips turned up at her stammering as he thought it through. He wasn’t tied down and she really was lovely, but as he thought about dates, his mind drifted to Matthew and then on towards other things. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to be with somebody else when he was still yearning after that night. Nor was he sure whether he was even ready to be with a woman again. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t picked up the night of the attack.

“Angie, you’re a really wonderful person,” he told her honestly while trying to put his phrase delicately so he didn’t hurt her feelings, “but I’m not really looking for that at the moment, y’know? I kind of want to get used to myself and this whole new thing first.” He shifted uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn’t be able to see through him. He wasn’t lying that he was nervous about adjusting, but having to change his daily routine didn’t really mean he couldn’t have a relationship.

Still, she nodded at him, her plump cheeks tinged rosy pink and offered him a smile.

“It’s fine. I thought that would be the answer anyway, but it was worth a try.” He grinned back at her. “I’ll see you on Friday. Okay, Dominic.” She hurried off then before he could reply and he frowned, unaware that she had disappeared to the bathroom to steady her breathing and wonder why she kept getting rejected over and over again. He had seemed like such a nice lad, her age and the only polite young man she’d seen in almost a year; it seemed too good to be true, and she supposed it was. She scowled at herself in the mirror and went back to work, squashing down her hopes and focussing on her job once more.

Dominic pushed through the double doors and walked into a wall of heat, gasping for air as Corey chuckled at him.

“Yeah, it got worse while you were in there,” he told him, moving toward the car park.

“Jesus Christ!” Dom exclaimed. “Have we still got to work in this?” Corey nodded sadly and Dom swore. “Shame I haven’t got a holiday booked.”

 “Don’t you have leave to recover from your injuries?”

Dom paused and thought for a moment, opening the car door and hissing when he touched the handle, the metal thrumming with heat.

“Oh, yeah! I’ve got the rest of the week off!” His grin spread, lighting up his face, and Corey was relieved to see his friend back in the seat next to him in the car. He’d been terrified when he got the call telling him that Dom was in the hospital following an attack and rushed over immediately, only to be told that he was asleep and not ready for visitors just yet. He hadn’t been allowed to come and see him until the day to take him home.

“You lucky bugger,” he teased, knowing deep in his mind that being stabbed and getting leave to look after himself wasn’t a good thing but feeling jealous anyway.

“I’m just going to go to sleep in the park every day,” Dom sang cheerfully, “and eat lots of ice cream and hang out at the pool and meet loads of hot girls.”

Corey narrowed his eyes as he pulled out of the car park and started driving back to the main town.

“I hope you caught get lazing about in the park and dragged back to work.” Dom pouted.

“That’s not very fair. I _am_ injured, you know!”

They both grinned and Dom stared out of the window at the houses going past, wondering who was living in them and what they were doing with their day. Were they afraid of the killer? Were they preparing themselves on the off chance that they’d be as unlucky as he had been?

Was the killer actually in one of those houses?

Dom gasped suddenly, feeling a hand tightening on his arm, and tried to wrench it out of the man’s grasp. His head whipped around to see Corey staring at him, an evil smile spreading across his face as his hand tightened, leaving bruises on Dominic’s skin.

“No, please!” Dom cried, “It can’t be you!” Surely Corey wasn’t the killer, right? But he had been there and known where Dom was going that night. And he was here now, wrapping his arms around him, hauling him out of the metal monster and dragging him into his lair to do what he pleased with him...Dom thrashed around his grasp, digging his feet into the ground to hinder their progress.

“Come on, Dom! What the hell are you playing at, mate?” Corey demanded, heaving Dom up the curb onto the pavement and trying to making him stand up. “You were fine just a moment ago.”

Taking a deep breath and filling his lungs with stifling hot air, Dom prepared to scream for his life. He was on the main road, so somebody would be able to help him. If only he could attract their attention.

He turned around again to face his attacker and expelled the air in one long puff, stunned into silence at Corey’s accusing stare.

“W-Where did he go?” he asked, gasping for air. Corey watched him warily, keeping his distance.

“Who? There’s nobody else here, Dom. It’s just me and you.” Dom shook his head, searching the area frantically.

“The killer...I saw him. He was there, I _saw_ him!” He stepped right up Corey, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt. “He was there. Right there.” Corey shook his head and swallowed his apprehension, placing one hand on Dom’s tense arm.

“Dom, we’re alone. There isn’t anyone else. There never was,” he said in as calm a tone as he could manage, not an easy feat when he was quaking with fear at the look in Dominic’s eyes.

“Then...it must be you,” Dom declared, point at him with an unsteady finger, his arm wobbling as he stared fixedly at a point on Corey’s chest, unable to look him in the eyes now that he knew what he was. “You’re the killer.”

Corey balked at the suggestion. He knew that he was supposed to remain cool and collected like the nurses had told him, knew that he wasn’t supposed to listen to the accusations, but he wouldn’t stand for this.

“I am not!” he yelled. “Dom, I’m not the killer!”

“But you just tried to do it now! You followed me into the alley and you were going to slit my throat, weren’t you?” Dom screeched, the words falling out of his mouth without his permission, “Weren’t you?!”

Corey shook his head.

“You’re insane, man. I was trying to get you out of the car. You weren’t responding to me. Come on, mate, I’m your friend. You know I wouldn’t hurt you. Don’t you trust me?”

Dom faltered, his arm dropping as he stared at the floor.

“I don’t know if I can trust anybody anymore.”

Corey watched as Dom shuffled, narrowly avoiding falling off the curb and back into the road. He toed at one foot with the other, uncharacteristically nervous when talking to his best friend. Corey’s eyebrows drew together while making this observation, and wondering how much of Dom’s behaviour only five minutes ago was a lie. Perhaps he wasn’t quite ready to be living on his own again. Maybe he wasn’t even ready to leave the care of the hospital nurses.

“Well, you can trust me, mate.”

Dom looked up from the pavement and stared at Corey’s familiar face, peering into his deep brown eyes for any hint of betrayal. He found nothing there at all, no lies nor truths either. He shrugged hopelessly, his face lifeless.

“Whatever.” He moved to walk past him into the building but Corey’s arm blocked his entrance. He looked pointedly at him, nudging the arm out of the way, and Corey rolled his eyes and sighed.

“So are we clear on the fact that I’m not a killer?”

“Yes, fine, yes, can I go inside now?”

“No, I need to know that you mean it and you aren’t just saying it to please me. You don’t honestly believe I tried to hurt you, did you? That I would hurt all those people?” Dom could hear the desperation in his voice and his natural instinct was to respond to it, but what he had seen in the car couldn’t be a lie.

“I believe you, okay?”

Corey didn’t look satisfied.

“Can I go in now?” Dom asked again impatiently.

“No. I need to know what that was. Why the hell would you assume I was the killer? What did I do to...I don’t know, prompt that? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you just...no. I don’t know.” Dom turned away shielding his eyes from the sun and Corey’s view. There was a swollen silence settling between them and Corey sighed deeply, watching Dom’s movements and taking note of his inability to look into his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re safe, Dom.” Dominic scoffed, turning back to his friend with a mocking tone his voice.

“Of course I’m not safe! I nearly got killed. Did you really think I was safe, that anybody was safe?”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re not safe for yourself. I think you’re a danger to yourself.”

Dom stared at him as though he was speaking another language.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I...” Corey took a deep breath, knowing how Dom would take this ‘attack on his independence.’ “I think you should see someone.”

“See someone,” Dom repeated bluntly, the phrase taking its time to sink into his now fragile skin.

“Yeah. Like, a doctor or something. Somebody who could help you.”

The colour drained from Dom’s face as he thought of sitting in a quiet room, the only other person a stranger who expected him to tell everything about his deepest, most private thoughts. That had happened before.

“You want me to go and see a shrink?” Corey scratched the back of his neck and mumbled something to himself.

“I think it would be good for you.”

“Good for me how? You know I wouldn’t want that. Why would you even suggest it?”

“Because I’m worried about you. And it would give me some peace of mind if you could at least just try. You might have some sort of psychological development because of this, Dom. You almost died! You’re the only survivor. I can’t imagine what sort of pressure that must be putting on you, but maybe seeing somebody would help you to work through it.”

Dom laughed in his face bitterly.

“You know that doesn’t work on me. Haven’t I told you about last time? Do you want me to tell you again?”

Corey could feel frustration starting to build up in his veins, his fists clenching and unclenching. He knew that Dom was stubborn, but usually he was more willing to listen to his point of view than this. Automatically dismissing his opinion wasn’t fair, and he knew that he couldn’t understand Dom’s situation, but at least he was trying.

“Fine. You know what, Dom? I don’t care. Do whatever you fucking want. Run outside in one of your delusions and get knocked over by a car. I don’t care anymore. Don’t thank me for coming to get you, it’s alright.” He kicked the wall and got into the car, slamming the door and speeding off towards his own flat. He pounded the steering wheel in anger, shaking his head at his own idiocy. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he shouldn’t have said them, but his annoyance had overwhelmed him. He needed a way to get out of the conversation when he knew it would just go round and round again and again.

Dom watched the car disappearing onto a joining road and then stepped into his home, climbing the steps up to his flat and peering at the spot where the blood splatter had been. The stairs had been cleaned to keep customers coming to the shop, but as he pushed open the door to his flat, he could still sense himself there, writhing on the floor with the phone clasped in sweaty palms, feeling his last breaths wracking his body.

He stared at the point on the floor, seeing that they had at least been considerate to clean that up as well, and slammed his foot down, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling one hot tear leak out and drip down his cheek, leaving a burning shame in its wake.


	7. Chapter 7

Dominic developed a routine between Tuesday and Friday, learning to settle down without hurting his wound. He taped a plastic bag over his dressing when showering, which he did twice a day to cope with the sticky heat. He slept on his right side instead of his left, although this meant he wasn’t facing the window like he usually did and unnerved him. He would stare into the darkness of the room, sure that he could feel eyes on his back through the window, only to roll over and stare at the sliver of moon. He was sure it hadn’t been there that night, and it was his only reassurance.

His days weren’t as relaxing as he had told Corey they would be, either. He went out to the park on the Wednesday after he had gotten up and was jealous of those going for a morning jog, knowing that he was restricted to walking for at least two weeks. He scowled at them and they shot him odd looks, confused as to why the young man was sprawled out across the grass as though he were sleeping. He tried to have a nap in the corner of the park, but the birds tweeting shook him out of his drowsy state until he was awake and alert, sitting upright and scanning the park for threats.

He had seen him among the children playing on the swings, seen him in the couples walking their dogs, in the blazing sun in the sky. He had felt him in all of their eyes as they looked over at him and shook their heads, had felt him in his wound, stabbing him over and over until he was crouched over himself, sobbing into his hands at the pain that washed over him in floods. Just when he thought he had overcome the waves, another would kick in.

Stumbling over the rocks in the path, he started to make his way back to his flat, the tears streaking down his face as he lost control of himself. He wandered blindly into trees and tripped over loose dog leads, the children in the park frozen as they watched him pass by. Horrified mothers grabbed their children away from the path and held them close, glaring at the man as he staggered towards the gate. He fumbled his way home, shuddering the whole way as he struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Pushing open the door, he made his way up the steps.

“Excuse me!” somebody shouted from the shop. “Where do you think you’re going?” He blinked, slowly turning around to face the shopkeeper.

“My flat,” he stated, unaware of how he appeared. There were loose twigs caught in his hair, and the tear tracks had started to dry, giving his face a shiny, swollen look.

“You don’t live up there.” The shopkeeper folded his arms, tutting to himself. It wasn’t even lunchtime and this bloke was already drunk.

“But...but I do?” Dominic frowned, staring at the unfamiliar man and wondering what he was doing there. He couldn’t keep Dominic from going in his own flat, could he?

“No, you don’t, actually. Perhaps you’ve got confused and live next door, but you don’t live here. This is somebody else’s property.”

Dom remained on the steps, staring dumbly at the man in front of him who started waving his arms to get Dom’s attention. His eyes focused on the nip of a fountain pen behind him on the desk, swallowing a lump in his throat. The metal gleamed in the light that was streaming through the window, and the sharp point almost seemed to wink at him. Inhaling sharply, he pushed past the startled shopkeeper and raced out of the door, heart pounding in his throat. He flung himself into the neighbouring shop and hurried up the stairs, tripping on the runner as he pushed his door open, the keys still dangling there from where he had left them earlier. Collapsing onto his bed in a heap, he sobbed into the duvet, his throat raw, yet no tears would flow. The smiley face keychain hanging from the door swung in the breeze.

The remainder of the week was spent in his room, eating and not sleeping. He didn’t make any contact with anybody other than when his boss called to check up on him. He was wished a swift recovery and reminded to be back to work the following week, something he wasn’t look forward to. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that his life had suddenly been flung away from the norm, but perhaps he was being too optimistic when he hoped he was just recovering and it would go away soon. Maybe he had a fever.

Pushing open the double doors to the hospital on Friday, he was glad to walk into the air-conditioned hall and spent longer than necessary checking the map underneath the machine, the streams of cool air comforting him. Reluctantly leaving the breezy atrium for the stairs, he jogged up, wheezing when he reached the top.

The ward looked and smelled just like he remembered, even though most of the patients were new. He noted that the grumbling man in the corner had been discharged and smiled grimly, hoping he wouldn’t run into him in the town. He wasn’t sure he could handle the humiliation.

Angie came to meet him at the door and led him through to a check-up room, eagerly asking him questions about his week and how he had been coping with his injury. He lied through his teeth, reassuring her that he was fine and settling back into his home reasonably well. There was no need to tell her about his episodes, was there?

The doctor examined him and changed the dressing, promising Dominic that it could be taken off the following week. He was asked a few questions about his average day so that he could plan when to go back to his usual routines, and finally was asked directly what he felt about his mental state.

"I'm...not sure I know what you mean," Dominic replied, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes darted to the side and he wrung his hands before staring right back at the doctor. He had read about the signs that gave away lies, so he looked him directly in the eyes, hoping this his smile would convey a sense of honesty. All the doctor saw, however, was instability, a mad hysteria on the horizon.

"You've been through a very traumatic experience, Dominic, and it's not unusual for somebody to come out of this with a few problems." Dom nodded, having been given this speech earlier in the week. Last time he ended up accusing his friend of being the murderer; were there any lines he wasn't willing to cross, or was he about to accidentally reveal it all?

"What point are you trying to make here?" The doctor noticed his reserved attitude, and his legs were crossed tightly, as though forming a protective boundary around him. He knew the outcome of this conversation already.

"I'm saying that perhaps you might want to talk to somebody about your experience to make sure this doesn't happen to you." Dominic appeared visibly uncomfortable but he was still attempting to form an easy smile. He looked down to see the doctor's open palms and bit his lip.

"I'm not sure that would work," he answered, his first whole truth of the day.

"I recommend you at least try, Dominic. Not everybody responds to this sort of treatment, but it may be beneficial to you. We wouldn't want you suffering any more than you already have, would we?"

No, he didn't want that. Was it too late?

The doubts swarmed in his mind and he found himself leaning more towards the doctor's side. Unlike Corey, he didn't lose his cool easily, dealing with these sorts of patients every day. He knew exactly how to get Dominic to agree with him, and bit back a victorious smile when the blonde nodded.

"I can give you a list of people that would be willing to help you. Not all of them are NHS-funded, unfortunately, but I can promise you that they're all trustworthy and fairly successful."

"I'll take a look. Thank you."

And that was how Dominic found himself walking up Orchard Grove the following morning, staring with his mouth slightly open at the size of the houses. He could only dream of earning enough to live in these four-five bedroom places, and the pristine gardens were as beautiful as they were intimidating.

Matthew was sat on the piano stool in his study, twiddling a small rectangle in his fingers, resting the point on the soft pad of his index finger and twirling it around on the spot, studying the card from different angles. It cast a long shadow over his outstretched palm in the low sunlight.

He had music playing throughout the room again, a mellow piece that he hardly recognised. He'd stolen it from somewhere-not that he could remember now-just to get a flavour of music tastes other than his own. Pausing in his actions and closing his eyes, he tried to recall the evening. Some evenings were just a blur of distant memory to him, inconsequential and routine, whereas some evenings he could remember with distinct clarity. The night he'd spent at Dominic's house was definitely one of those evenings.

His thoughts progressed to the feelings of that night and he felt a grin start to spread across his face. If he was in the habit of revisiting people he'd previously slept with, he might have paid Dominic a few more visits. The scrap of paper he'd found with the digits scrawled across it was resting on his desk, unfolded and smoothed out. He hadn't looked at it since he'd found it and placed it there, and his only contact with it had been brushing it away when trying to find something else on his desk. For a brief moment, he considered picking up the phone and dialling, just to see what Dominic's reaction would be, the thought of his excitement to boost his already inflated ego too much to resist.

However, as he reached over to the desk to get his phone, he froze, the grin remaining fixed on his face. He couldn't go back to this one. Something was telling him not to. Not this one.

He scowled at himself and diverted the course of his hand to the back of his head, smoothing down the dark locks as he glanced at the clock. His next client would be arriving in a few minutes. Not that they were ever on time. He didn't even really like his job all that much. He'd never had much of an interest in other people, instead choosing to focus on what they could provide him with. And after his first few years of study, he felt like he'd explored almost everything there was to offer from the human species. Nothing surprised him anymore. Instead, his days were filled with stubborn patients who refused to see his point of view, and he struggled to assume theirs. His analyses were text-book only; never could he understand what it was like to be them.

A knock on the door interrupted his pondering and he got up from the stool to get it, walking the same ten footsteps it took, just as he did every other day. Every single dreary day.

Opening the door, he was almost inclined to close it again. Dr Matthew Bellamy was not often shocked, but seeing the blonde man standing on his doorstep, he had to take a step back in genuine surprise.

"Matthew?" Dominic asked, aghast. Matthew noticed the high pitch of his voice, the widened eyes, the jaw slackening; Dominic hadn't planned to come to him. It was alright.

"Dominic," Matthew replied tightly, pressing his lips together between carefully chosen words, "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Not a lie.

"Well, I wasn't exactly expecting you either." Dominic's laugh was slightly off, but he managed a weak smile. "I thought you said you studied."

"I do. I study people."

"Smart arse." A flicker of a smirk appeared on Matthew's face.

"Well, would you like to come in?" he opened the door wider and Dominic bit his lip, stepping into the hallway of Matthew's house.

It was impeccably clean, quite the opposite of Dom's own messy room. He took in the pictures on the cream walls as he followed Matthew to the main study. Matthew pushed open the door and allowed Dominic to walk in first, taking pride in the way Dominic's awestruck face stared at the room. The ceilings were fairly high, something he hadn't noticed in the hallway but struck him as important here. The pale green walls were barely visible, as they were covered by shelves of books of all different titles and genres. He peered out of the windows, able to see the street in the evening sunlight that drifted in through the glass panes, catching the dust floating around so that it sparkled like glitter. In the corner of the room stood a massive, pure white piano.

"Do you mind?" Dominic asked as he stepped over towards it.

"I would rather you didn't," Matthew said simply, surprised at his own honesty. Dom nodded, eyes wide, and brought his hand back from where it was inching towards the keys, folding it behind his back. Instead, he made his way over to the bookcases, scanning the titles as he slowly paced in front of them. There were medical journals from years before he was even born; an entire bookcase was dedicated to literature, familiar names like Orwell and Joyce scattered among the lesser known; Dominic was surprised to see survival guides and modern sci-fi taking up a large number of shelves on the right.

“The Grand Chessboard? Rule by Secrecy? Don’t tell me you’re a conspiracy nut!” Dom scoffed, unable to believe that the man he remembered from his night out was also the man who clearly lived in such luxury.

“It’s interesting, the way these people think,” Matthew replied, hiding his hands in his pockets as he watched Dominic. “And the way the world works. It’s not as improbable as you might think.”

Dominic chuckled softly, stroking the spines of the books as he mouthed some of the titles to himself.

“The Science of Thought Control?”

“Always good to know.” Dom grinned fully then, spinning back to face Matthew. He walked towards him, mirroring the other man’s position with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.

“So, you’re a psychiatrist.”

“I am. So, you’re in need of a psychiatrist?” Dom clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shrugging slightly.

“That’s what they say. Picked the first name on the list and here I am.”

There was silence, and Matthew decided to take the lead. He walked over to his desk, swiping Dom’s phone number over to the side so that he couldn’t see it. He sat down in the chair and rested his elbows on the mahogany, creating a rest for his chin out of his clasped hands.

“Well, what exactly would you say your problems are?” Still on the other side of the room, Dominic scratched the back of his neck, avoiding the question by asking,

“Don’t you think it’d be awkward? What with our history, I’m not sure that...well...” Matthew watched Dominic and hid his smile behind his hands, sensing his apprehension. He had told himself he wouldn’t go back to Dominic, but if Dom came back to him, that was another story. If he could treat him, he’d have him all to himself, gorgeous body and all. And he did seem rather interesting. Matthew wondered what his problem was and started thinking up a few exciting games they could play together.

“Because we had sex?” Dominic’s cheeks reddened at Matthew’s bluntness.

“Well, yeah.”

“Are you usually this nervous, Dominic? You didn’t seem like that in the bar.” He shook his head and Matthew closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling once before he continued. “Don’t you think that sex is the most intimate act? You can’t get much closer than that, can you?”

“I guess not.”

“If I already know that about you, talking to me shouldn’t be such a big deal, should it? You know me. You’ve touched me. You’ve seen me. I’ve slept in your bed. Does that make it awkward, or does it mean that we can get the compulsory greetings over with and start in immediately? Does it mean that we have skipped the introductory phase and can progress onto a more trusting relationship?”

_Trust._ Dominic licked his dry lips and started to amble towards Matthew’s desk, resting his hands on the back of the chair facing the dark-haired man. Could Dominic trust him when he couldn’t even trust his own best friend? Could he tell this man all of his secrets and not worry about looking like an idiot, not worry about being made into something he wasn’t?

“If it means anything to you, doctor-patient confidentiality still applies here. I can’t tell anybody anything. Your secrets are all safe with me.” Dominic looked right into the tiny pupils of those scintillating blue eyes, wondering about all the things he had heard and been told over the years. Surely he’d had patients who were really insane, who had done terrible things. He couldn’t be the first and wouldn’t be the last; what was stopping him?

Matthew noticed a final, submissive shift in posture and sat up slightly, taking his elbows off the table and replacing them with his hands, tapping a pattern lightly so that he didn’t damage the wood.

“Please, Dominic, do take a seat,” he invited him with one hand outstretched. Dominic finally gave in, positioning himself in the chair and leaning back into the cushion there. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands in his lap, watching Matthew pull out a leather-bound book and writing his name and the date in the top right-hand corner of a page in his messy scrawl. He had half expected an intricate cursive because of the way the man lived, and that was when he noticed the music playing.

“Who’s this?” he asked, cocking his head as he listened to the quiet music over the sound of their breathing.

“I’m not sure,” Matthew replied. “I acquired it somewhere.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Do you listen to music much, Dominic?” He nodded enthusiastically, coming to life in front of Matthew’s eyes.

“Oh, yes, I love music! I don’t listen to much orchestral music, but I’m always plugged into my iPod.”

“Do you play?” Dom shook his head sadly.

“I wish I did, but we couldn’t afford lessons when I was a child, and we definitely can’t now.”

“Your family wasn’t very wealthy?”

“Not at all. Mum was an assistant at the local school and Dad worked in a shop. We weren’t a particularly interesting family.” Matthew continued to prise out more information about Dominic’s family and home life, the young man happily telling him all about his past without a qualm. He wasn’t entirely paying attention, and between the gaps where he wrote down important details that might explain Dominic’s current personality, he twirled his pen between his fingers, nodding and humming when deemed appropriate.

 “How about your current situation?” he asked, nodding towards Dominic. “How are you at the moment?”

“Were you told about...my situation? And what happened?” Matthew shook his head and his heart clenched as he anticipated Dominic’s explanation. He was now sure he knew exactly why he was here. Without any deeply-ingrained problems, he could only be here as a result of a recent traumatic experience. If he had been the type, Matthew might have guilty that he had pushed Dominic into therapy, but he was not, so he wasn’t.

“Well,” Dominic swallowed, wondering how to progress. He hadn’t actually said it out loud to anybody so far, and speaking the words seemed to confirm them, as though the constant feeling of his dressing rubbing against his clothing wasn’t enough, “I was attacked. I think by whoever is murdering all these people.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows, his lips parted as his jaw dropped slightly and he gaped at Dominic, feigning shock.

“God, really?” Dominic nodded, hearing the shock sharpening his voice. “Wow, Dominic, I...I’m so sorry that had to happen to you. You’re so brave for getting through that.” Dom ducked his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Well, I didn’t exactly come through unscathed.”

“So it would appear.” Matthew paused and stared out of the window at the clear, empty road as he wondered how to continue. He wanted to take on the conversation, wanted to grab Dominic by the hair and find all the secrets by his own methods, but he knew he had to be delicate for now. He didn’t want to scare Dominic away before he could lure him into the trap. “Dominic, obviously I am not a medical doctor. You would only be here if you felt there was some threat to your psychological state. Would you be willing, perhaps, to explain some of your feelings with me?”

Dominic nodded shakily, checking the clock on the wall. He had only booked an hour long session, and half an hour had passed just by exploring how far he was willing to go and looking around Matthew’s office.

“Would you talk to me about the night of your attack?”

“Um...okay. I can do that, yeah.”

“What were you doing beforehand?”

“I was out with my friends. At the bar I met you.” Matthew eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. _What was Dominic doing at the bar again?_ He thought to himself, thoughts naturally progressing again to their ‘relationship.’

“And what led you to the place of the assault?”

“I was just walking home my usual way. All by myself. I didn’t think there would be a problem with it?”

“Were you drunk, Dominic?” He nodded and Matthew bit back a smirk. _Lightweight._ He had noticed that Dominic was a lot more willing to bend to Matthew’s will after a few drinks that fateful night. He filed this information away for the future. “Tell me what happened.”

Dominic faltered, wincing at the memory and absently patting his side where the wound was. Matthew’s eyes drifted to his hands; the night was fuzzy in his mind as he had been so flustered, and he couldn’t quite remember it all. Dominic’s account was as much for his own benefit as Dominic’s.

“I’m not sure I can do that. It wasn’t very clear,” Dom confessed, feeling guilt that he was already failing at his therapy. If he couldn’t bring himself to talk about what little he did remember, how would he ever progress?

“That’s alright,” Matthew reassured him, noticing Dominic rest his hands on the table, his touch light as though afraid to leave a fingerprint. Matthew’s hands inched forwards. “How about how you felt? Emotions often stick with us more than the memory itself. Can you tell me what it was like?”

Dom paused and, deep in thought, he relaxed slightly, his palms resting flat on the table. Matthew’s own hands crept towards them as he watched the expressions flicker over Dominic’s face, minute changes morphing it into a mask of fear and pain.

“I had never been so scared in my life,” he said finally, shuddering. “It was like I knew as soon as I felt somebody behind me that I was going to die. And I was so sure of it, but I wasn’t ready. I thought that would be something you’d accept, but it turns out that, no, I wasn’t ready at all.”

“Perhaps the fact that you wanted so badly to hang on to this life meant that you were more able to resist the attack. Do you think that the other people didn’t fight back as much because, deep down, they didn’t want to?”

Dominic seemed startled at the suggestion.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t know any of them. Do you?” Matthew’s hands finally placed themselves on top of Dominic’s and he laced their fingers together. The blonde didn’t comment on it.

“Perhaps. Maybe they had lost the will or they didn’t have the inner strength to fight like you did.”

“Maybe,” he whispered, looking down at their hands. He didn’t mention them.

“Do you think they were weak, Dominic? Do you look down on them because they didn’t survive and you did?”

Mouth dry, he looked up at Matthew, who gave away nothing except professional curiosity.

“I...”

“Do you think that they would have been better off if they had tried? That they’re not as good as you? They weren’t able to fight back; they got overwhelmed by this person and let themselves fall. They could have resisted, couldn’t they? And they didn’t. What does that say about them, hm, Dominic?” The dominant Matthew came out to play, and Dom found himself shrinking under that gaze, wondering how many personalities the man had.

He thought of the other victims. The nameless faces, those unfortunate people before him, and whoever would come after him. Matthew was right, in a way. They hadn’t fought. They hadn’t even tried. Why was it that he had been successful in getting away and yet they hadn’t? The doctors had been asking him that since the beginning, wondering if he knew the killer, if he managed to fight him off, but all Dominic could tell them was that he was fortunate he had slipped away. But perhaps it wasn’t luck. Perhaps he was just stronger than them. Perhaps he was better. He had read once: ‘the weak are meat, the strong do eat.’

And which was he? Which were they?

“They were weak.”

Matthew’s lips curled into a smile and he tightened his fingers on Dominic’s. _Bullseye._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 belldom dollars to whoever finds the Red Dragon quote :D  
> Oh and, of course, this entire chapter was heavily inspired by certain people, so thank you very much for that!

Walking home after his appointment with Matthew, Dominic felt surprisingly light. He hadn’t really noticed the weight on his shoulders over the past week, despite noticing the effects of it, and he realised that he hadn’t had an episode in over twenty-four hours. Perhaps he was recovering. Maybe he wouldn’t need to go back and see Matthew for more.

Although this thought disappointed him a little more than he was willing to admit.

It was true, he didn’t like therapy sessions and he thought that just talking with somebody else about his problems wouldn’t solve anything, but he liked being in Matthew’s presence. Despite the awkwardness he could feel and the obvious tension between them, he felt reassured by his speech. Matthew was ever more professional and almost eloquent inside his own home than he had been when at Dominic’s, and he found it hard to imagine the suited man saying those filthy things to him, but he was the same man. He was the same man he had been fantasizing about since the night he’d taken him home, the same man he’d slipped his phone number to. Even if that hadn’t been successful, now he had a contact link between himself and Matthew. He could call him almost whenever; on the pretence of psychiatric help, of course, but the point remained.

Dominic was going to see Matthew again.

He nodded at the man he saw on the street corner, undisturbed despite the man’s appearance. His clothes were crumpled and torn in places, dried blood covering the edges of the fabric and staining it black. He was waving at Dominic and calling him, but the blonde couldn’t hear him over the singing from the other side of the road, the children chained to the railings humming tunes from school and feeding the dogs in the park with leaves they found on the floor. As cliché as it sounded, Dominic found himself whistling a cheery tune as he made his way home. Even when he considered the fact that his and Matthew’s relationship was now strictly professional and would be illegal if he tried to charm him again.

In reality, the people on the road weren’t there. The streets were bare and the sun was hidden behind the clouds. There wasn’t a distressed homeless man, weren’t any children singing a tune that seemed similar to the unknown song Matthew had playing in his office; Dominic was all alone. Alone like the night in the alley. Alone like the nights he spent awake in his flat, the wind blowing in the curtains and the bad memories.

That evening, when Dominic was tucked up in bed and the town was at rest, the streets were quiet save for a few cars disappearing into the darkness. In one of these cars sat Dr Matthew Bellamy. He had the radio on, a band he didn’t know the name of playing quietly in the background. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song and watched out of the windscreen as the street lights that marked the roads zipped by.

The nearest town was several miles away, and he had to make sure he didn’t draw attention to himself. He had a fairly nondescript car, one that wasn’t particularly new and modern, but still had many features that he could enjoy. He didn’t much like to put the air-conditioning on, as the whirring of the fan overpowered the sound of the radio, and he much preferred to open the windows, allowing the cool night air to filter in. He could smell the plants in the fields and the leftover scents of evening barbeques, wood smoke from the barn drifting across the sky and removing the tiny sliver of moon and the twinkling of the stars from his sight.

As the signs for the town started to show, he slowed down to an acceptable speed, glancing at the houses he could see out of the window as he passed. The place looked just like Boston, except it wasn’t.

He drove around and parked in a pub car park, tempted to go in for a drink but knowing he shouldn’t make an appearance, otherwise suspicions would be aroused. After locking the car quietly and slipping out, he shuffled to the alleyway he had found on an online map, keeping to the shadows. He pulled on his thick, black gloves and flexed his fingers, fumbling in his pocket for what he needed.

The alleyway was longer than the one in Boston, but it was also narrower. A few sparse trees along the side created the only shadows, and Matthew decided it would be best to hide himself among them and just wait. He didn’t particularly like this method, but it would have to suffice.

After almost an hour and Matthew was getting impatient. He could see the street lights flickering out on the main street and wondered how much longer he would have to wait. It was Saturday night and people tended to come home late, but it was nearing midnight and he would rather get home in time to have at least four hours of sleep before cooking tomorrow morning.

Just when he was getting grumpy, Matthew heard footsteps. He felt a grim smile start to spread across his face and checked himself over, tension rippling through his muscles as he prepared himself. His hands were itching to reach out but he steady himself. He pressed two fingers to the column of his neck, mouthing numbers to himself as his victim grew ever closer. The steady thump calmed him and his mind cleared, snapping into focus. Heartbeat 74.

He heard the crunch of feet on gravel, heard the whoosh of breathing and the sound of somebody cursing as they brushed tree branches out of their face. A woman walked past him, not noticing Matthew at all as she drunkenly passed by. He counted her footsteps and let her go for five...four...three...

On the fifth step away from him, he stepped out from among the shadows, completely black but for his ghostly pale skin and icy eyes. He crept up behind her silently, socked feet gripping the stones in curled toes, one hand clasping the knife between his fingers in his pocket.

He was right up behind her, then, and she felt his breath on her neck in the split second before he leaned down, hair rising up on her arms.

“Hello,” he breathed softly into her ear. She didn’t turn around. He stepped closer so that his chest was touching her back and touched his lips to her neck, able to feel her heartbeat thrumming beneath her skin. She gasped as he kissed her, one hand reaching around her to hold her tightly to him.

“H-hello,” she stammered out, her voice slurred with alcohol. He chuckled softly.

“What’s your name?” Heartbeat 79. Fingers slipping on the knife. Hold it steady. Don’t let it go.

“Hannah.” Her word was no more than a startled whisper, and she could feel him smile against the skin of her neck.

“Lovely to meet you, Hannah.” He felt curly hair tickling his cheek, could smell the alcohol on her breath, her silky clothes smooth against the pads of his fingers where he held her. “Sorry that this isn’t going to be your lucky night.” He lathed the sweet skin of her neck with his tongue and then bit down sharply. Her breathing hitched and she began to twist just as pulled the knife from his pocket, plunging it forward into her back. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as the weapon touched her spinal cord and she flopped like a fish in his arms, falling forward and getting caught on Matthew’s strong arm.

“Good girl,” he purred, holding her in his arms and spinning her, watching as her eyes rolled back in her head. She began to gargle, choking as her held her at arm’s length and watched the colour draining from her face. This one wouldn’t take much.

He dropped his arm and let her fall gracelessly to the floor, and she let out a strangled noise as her head hit the rocky floor of the alley. She was sprawled out like an abandoned doll, her hair spread around her head as she jerked on the floor. Matthew crouched down over her body, lightly fingering the edge of her dress before pushing it up her leg.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin this pretty thing, would we? What is this, Versace?” As he folded up the fabric, he caught sight of the label and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Just a knock-off. Not nearly as wonderful.

When the skin of her legs was exposed, he pressed his gloved hand down firmly on her knee to stop the jerking.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, “even if you do wear common clothing.”

It took a mere second for him to slice down the inside of her thigh, the knife cutting through like soft butter, her skin pliant and supple. The blood poured out first in dribbles, then it started gushing from the wound, scarlet liquid staining her skin and pooling on the floor between her legs. He sat back on his haunches, heartbeat 76, pulling the dress down over the wound and frowning when the blood seeped through and stained the pale satin. He hadn’t planned to decorate this one, but perhaps she deserved it. After all, it did look rather nice.

He wasn’t sure she would agree, but she didn’t really have the strength to tell him that.

He watched the light fade from her eyes as the body stilled, the blood continuing to drain out, some of it drying on her skin around the wound. Still as a mannequin, she was laid in front of him, free of protection and free of life. Exactly how he liked them.

Matthew was home within the hour, a cool bag sat in the chair beside him and strapped in with the belt. He was quicker on the way home, knowing that the police were watching out for suspicious action and hoping he would stay under the radar if he was faster. He took the bag to his freezer in the garage and unloaded it, wrapping each item up carefully so that they would keep.

Finally, he peeled off his gloves and put them in the washing machine, starting the cycle for the two small bits of fabric. He began to strip off his clothes as he made his way up to the bedroom, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and spinning around as though showing off for a partner. Hips swaying, he wished he had speakers in the hallway so that the music would play throughout the whole house, but he would have to make do with humming to himself softly, his singing voice velvety and tuneful.

The shirt fully removed, he tossed it to the floor and sat on his bed, staring at himself in the mirror. His encounter with Dominic that morning had only stirred up the feelings of want he had suppressed, and he started to hatch a plan that would involve him getting laid at least once more. A cheeky grin spread itself across his face as he began to lie back into the sheets, and then his eyes drifted to the shirt on the floor. He sat back up immediately, holding the shirt between the tips of two fingers and peering at it.

There was a small stain on it, the blood crisp black and barely visible on the cotton. Cursing, he traipsed back down the stairs, removing the gleeful steps he had taken just before. Frown firmly implanted, he sat in the kitchen and fetched his lighter, holding it to the corner of the shirt and watching it catch fire. The bright flames licked up the hem of the shirt first, devouring it and any traces of his night. As the fire spread, the flames grew, sparks flying off as Matthew cupped the flames in his palms. His brow was set, shadows playing around his eyes, and the fire glowed in his pupils as the monster watched the remainders of his creation shining in the dark.

The body wasn’t found until eleven AM the next day when the congregation were spilling from the local church. With the sun shining high in the sky, the alley wasn’t dangerous during daylight hours, and a little old woman tottered down the path, clutching her handbag in her hand as she brushed hair out of her eyes. She still had the tune of that morning’s final hymn playing around in her head and bobbed her head along as she turned to go down her usual route back home.

As she looked ahead, however, she could see something was blocking her path. Her eyesight had deteriorated with age, and even as she fumbled in her bag for her glasses, she was growing closer to whatever it was. When she was standing only six feet away, however, it became terrifyingly clear.

She let out a piercing scream at the sight of the body on the floor and promptly fainted, knocking her head on the fences lining the alley and twisting her ankle painfully. The twinge shocked her back into consciousness, and turned away from the body, facing the wall and wailing to herself, clutching her head between her hands and resting it on her knees like she had been told to do whenever she felt faint.

Two people, having heard her scream, rushed into the alley. They had heard about the terrors of Boston, had been made aware of how to keep themselves safe and had been closely watching the local papers for any new developments. Tom Kirk’s article was pinned to the fridge with a magnet and highlighted, and they had set new curfews for their children, even going so far as to walk them down the road to the bus stop.

When they reached the old woman, their eyes widened, and they automatically fell into their roles. The woman of the couple fell to her knees to tend to the woman, whispering soothing things into her ear as she helped her up and out of the alley, taking her to a nearby bench and making sure she didn’t have any prolonged damage because of the fall. There was a possibility that she might suffer concussion, so she searched for somebody who was willing to take the woman to the doctor’s, more grateful than she had ever been for the friendly community she experienced here. In the town she came from before she moved in with her husband, people had kept to themselves, only bothered with their own business. Here, the willingness to help was what made them stand out, and was also what aided them in crises like this.

Her husband was on the phone with the police and trying not to look at the body. However, even though he told himself it was horrific and felt his stomach turn just at the thought, he couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding to the side to stare it at one more time. And another time. And another. The temptation was too great to resist, and each time he was more disgusted than the first. Thank goodness he didn’t recognise the girl.

The town police arrived and ushered the couple away from the scene, thanking them for the notification and making sure that they were out of the way before they started to seal off the area. Fluorescent yellow tape criss-crossed across both entrances to the alley and small crowds of people began to gather, peering over the tape to see what the police were up to. Two men were ordered to shoo away anybody trying to get information while they waited for the Boston police force to arrive and take control of the situation, but most of the time was spent awkwardly pacing the lines and trying not to look, mumbling to themselves about the possibility that the killer had moved.

Ten minutes later, a very out of breath Chris Wolstenholme arrived on the scene, flashing his ID at the two officers and ducking under the tape. He had a flustered team behind him, but he held his hand up so that they would wait as he stepped forward, taking in the scene. The local team coughed into their fists beside him as he slowly walked around the body. He took in the stains across the dress and the blood pooled on the floor. Her lips were parted and her eyes wide open, lifeless pupils staring up at him. He steeled himself so he wouldn’t shudder in front of the others, asking them if anybody knew her name. He was only greeted by head shakes.

“Probably new around here,” somebody said, his voice unnaturally gruff and low. Everybody else remained silent.

Chris crouched down so that he could get a closer look, noticing the lack of wound in the throat that all the previous victims had sported. They had all been males before; the cogs started turning in his mind as he processed this. Did the killer have separate methods for men and women? Or was it merely coincidence that this one didn’t need that one there? Did they forget? Think it was unnecessary? Why slash the throat anyway when the femoral had already been caught? Which order were they in?

All he had were questions and no answers.

He turned so that he could get a better view at the girl’s neck, peering through the thick hair and bending lower. He wasn’t allowed to touch the body yet, so he flattened himself on the ground and peered at her skin. There was a bite mark, a row of teeth set in the skin with one that turned sideways, like it was twisted out of place.

“Snaggle-toothed bastard,” he muttered to himself.

Finally he stood up, brushing his hands on his jacket and looking at his feet, unable to watch their reactions when he said, “You might want to get a rape kit.”

The already tense atmosphere shifted from shock to hidden horror, loathing for the killer boiling up inside their veins as they shuffled around the body, starting to kick themselves into action. They didn’t talk about their work like they usually did, didn’t want to mention it for fear of breaching a taboo subject. Despite being right in front of a dead girl, mentioning her was a crime punishable by exclusion and suspicion.

Chris walked over to the entrance, leaning against the fence as he patted his pockets in the hopes of finding a packet of cigarettes and frowning when he was disappointed. The people from the hospital were supposed to be here to start the forensics and get at least an identification to inform the family. He wondered if Dr Devonish would be back with her assistant or whether the hospital decided they wanted to traumatise more staff.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw somebody crossing the road, walking up towards him. At first he thought it was the forensics leader, but on closer inspection, he noticed the camera in the man’s hand. The guys he had already brought had taken a camera and had started to capture the scene, so why would he have requested another one? He peered at the bearded bloke and then a lightbulb went off.

“No Press, please,” he grumbled, trying to keep his tone authoritative even when he was so shaken up.

“I’m not Press,” Tom Kirk lied. “I’m here to help. I might know the guy.” Chris watched his eyes dart to the scene, where the body was half hidden behind the legs of the police officers. He bit back a scoffing laugh. Of course he wasn’t here to help. It was woman, not a man. It was reported as a woman, but they had only called it a body over the radio. His eyebrows rose slightly and he just pointed, directing Tom away from the scene.

The young journalist sighed and groaned to himself, walking away with his tail between his legs. He had tuned into the police radio and had it on permanently in the office. It was difficult filtering out the rest of the notices, as the crime columns were somebody else’s responsibility, and it was distracting to figure out what was related to his subject when writing some rubbish about the case to fill in blocks in the paper. When he had heard about a murder over the radio just a few minutes ago, he had leapt out of his seat, grabbing his camera and slinging it around his neck, notepad still in his pocket from earlier in the week when he had tried to find Dominic. He was still looking.

The victory of his find was short-lived, but so was the disappointment after being turned away. Perhaps the officers at the other end of the alley wouldn’t be so sure that he wasn’t here to help. And now that he knew it was a woman...

The route to the other end of the alley was long-winded, as he had to go down several roads of identical houses before he found it, and he couldn’t blame anybody for trying to cut through. When he eventually found the other tape-bound entrance, he tried to act casual as he was walking up, resting his arm on his camera so that it wasn’t as obvious. However, when he got there, he wasn’t greeted with the two officers he had spotted earlier, but a grimly smiling DI Wolstenholme. He felt his hopes shatter inside as he saw the folded arms of the detective but he still progressed.

“Really?” Chris asked, incredulity raising his voice by half an octave. “Did you really think you’d get in this way?”

“Please, Mr Wolstenholme, just let me find out what’s going on,” Tom pleaded. “The public need to know!”

“How many times have I told you, ‘No’ already?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Right. Too many to count. So what makes you think I’m going to change my mind now?”

“The goodness of your heart, sir?”

“Cheek won’t get you anywhere, Kirk. Go on. Be off with you.”

Chris’ craving for a cigarette grew just at the sight of the aggravating brunette, whose persistence might have been admirable to some but was only irritating to him. Tom stood still, firmly in his place and stubbornly refusing to leave.

“Am I going to have to force you out of here, Kirk?” he questioned, rocking back on his heels and then forwards again, wondering why the younger man wasn’t intimidated yet. You would have thought that his being the head of the local police force would perhaps stimulate him into obeying hi, as he had the power to press charges if Tom continued to get in the way of investigating.

“No, Mr Wolstenholme, sir, not if you let me have a look. Then I’ll go willingly” Chris barked a laugh.

“Oh, really? You think that one’s going to work on me? I will physically kick you out, Kirk. This is your final warning.”

Everything inside Tom was screaming at him to get out of there, as this would surely blow his chances of ever getting any inside information from him at all. But the daring part of him was also raising its hand, waving it about so that Tom couldn’t ignore it. He swiftly lifted his camera up and snapped two shots over the top of Chris’ head before the bigger man broke through the tape, hands balled up into fists. He growled to himself and Tom got a perfect shot of his seething face, jaw set in anger and teeth gritted as he stormed towards him. Chris didn’t fail to notice the wide, fear-stricken eyes, but he ignored them.

He grabbed Tom by the collar of his jacket, the journalist swivelling around in his grasp to take more pictures of the scene without Chris in the way.

“Stop it!” Chris yelled in his ear, Tom quaking as he continued to take pictures, a surge of bravery rising in him. He felt fearless for a brief second, as though he could do anything, and almost considered trying to ask Chris for his opinion on the murders before he remembered that the man could pin him to the floor with his little finger.  “I told you to go, and now you will go.” Tom felt his feet lift from the floor as Chris carried him away from the scene, his arms and legs flailing as he screamed,

“Put me down!” repeatedly. He tried to swing so that his weight would pull him out of Chris’ vice-like grip but to no avail. When they were out of sight and Tom was fully humiliated, he was flung into the street, falling to the floor and staring up at the figure looming above him. “Don’t come back!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reached 50k tonight! This isn't that chapter, as I still have a few to edit before I can upload for you, but I'm pretty proud of myself :) Also thank you very much to Kristit and Hannah for being my sexy cheerleaders.

Monday morning and Tom Kirk was back to work, scouring the high street for people who would be willing to answer his questions. Most of them were in a rush on on their way to work, so he had initially thought this was a good plan but now realised that none of them were likely to talk to him. He sat down on a bench with his voice recorder in his hands and list of question trapped beneath one leg, watching the crowd going past for some shoppers who would take five minutes out of their day to help him out.

It was then that he noticed the blonde man ambling along the path with his hands stuffed in his suit pockets. He looked like he was heading to work, but his lazy gait and slightly dishevelled appearance said otherwise. Perhaps he was hungover.

Tom sensed an opportunity and leapt up from the bench, rushing over to Dom and clicking on the voice recorder, hiding it in his pocket.

"Hi there!" he greeted him with one hand stuck out for him to shake, "I'm Tom Kirk, journalist for the Star. I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me. Could you do that?"

Dom paused, swallowing nervously. Did this man know that he had been attacked and was looking to get the gossip from the only survivor? He had been warned by the hospital and by Matthew-sorry _, Dr Bellamy_ -that he shouldn't talk to the Press about his experience, and knew that the police force was doing a fairly good job about keeping the information inside.

"Your views can remain anonymous, if you want. I'm just conducting a survey," Tom explained, a hopeful glint in his eyes. Dom relaxed when he realised he hadn't been identified. He was just a member of the public again, just one more body in the mass of hundreds passing along this street to work in the morning.

"Okay, yeah," Dom said, smiling slightly at Tom's delighted grin.

"On a scale of one to ten, how afraid are you of this killer?"

"More than ten," Dom confessed, wondering if his answers would tip the scales too much on the survey. Tom raised his eyebrows.

"And is this because of what you've read or heard about it, or because of a natural paranoia?"

"A bit of both, I think. I wasn't too scared until the third body was found; then I realised how serious the situation was." Tom nodded solemnly.

"And what do you think about the way the case is being covered? Would you like more information?"

"Well, everyone wants more information, don't they? So we can stay safe." Although Tom's first article hadn't exactly helped Dom when he needed it.

"So would you like more explanation on theories and staying out of harm’s way, or more of the details?"

"A bit of both, I suppose. We've been kind of blind, recently." Tom nodded, reading off the questions from his notepad. His lips twitched as he tried to keep the victorious smile off his face.

"How do you feel the police are dealing with this case?"

"I don't know. We don't get told enough to know. Are they anywhere near catching the guy?" Tom shrugged.

"They won't tell me anything. My guess is that they don't have too much to go on, but who knows?" Dom sighed, frowning at his feet.

"I guess they could be more open about it. Maybe we could help them. I heard they were going around asking for witnesses but nobody could give them anything because they wouldn't reveal enough to us. They're being too secretive."

"So you don't think they're handling it well?" _That would show Mr Wolstenholme._

"I can't really say, but it could be done better, that's for sure." Tom suppressed a smirk of victory.

"If I were to tell you that the killer had expanded its range from here to neighbouring towns, what would you think?" Dom thought for a moment, watching Tom's face for anything he might unconsciously give away. He seemed composed, as though he had a mask on, but Dom could see something in his eyes. Maybe a curiosity in the way the deep brown orbs flickered to his face and back to the paper, the excited glint that told Dom he was looking for a way to get insider knowledge.

"Something has happened, hasn't it?" Dom asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Something may or may not have happened. I can't promise anything." The way he said 'promise' almost made Tom sound like he wanted something to happen. Dominic scowled.

"I would say it's horrendous and people need to hurry up and catch this guy. The only experience of the police force I have is crime drama on telly but they're usually faster than this."

"And finally, what sort of person do you think the killer is? What's your opinion of them?" Dom and Tom both watched each other carefully, Tom trying to figure out what sort of game the other was playing and Dom looking into Tom's eyes and searching for the killer inside him. Was this the man who had attacked him that night? Maybe he was able to give information out because he was the one who created it.

"They're...just your normal person. It could be anybody on the street, anybody you run into in the morning work rush. You might have even interviewed them this morning and you wouldn't know because they're that well hidden. They're smart, that's for sure, and very sneaky. They know what they're doing and they do it well. Somebody who keeps off the radar but stays near it so they don't arouse suspicions. With an evil mind. Perhaps a psychopath or with some other sort of disorder." Tom raised his eyebrows, hoping that Dom's quick speech was all caught by the recorder and wouldn't be too muffled by his pockets. He hadn't expected a full profile from the man; everybody else had given him words like 'disgusting' and 'monster', yet here was this young man trying to explain who the killer was.

"You say anybody, yes?" Tom inquired, taking a daring step and prepared to run away if necessary, "so could you be the killer?"

"I...I," stunned into a shocked silence, Dom looked down at himself and held his hand up in front of him. Did these hands kill four-maybe five-people? Were these hands coated with blood while he worked away at their bodies? Did his face split in a terrible grin as he sat back to look at his handiwork? "I don't think so."

Yet Tom could see the way his wide eyes stared at his hands as though they were a stranger's, could see the fear shaking his head as he stepped back from the brunette and gasped at his own appearance. Killer or not, there was something wrong with this man.

"I don't think you are, mate," he tried to reassure him, unsure what to do in such a situation. But Dom was still stepping away, trembling as he thought of the evidence he knew. Who else knew he was going to be in that alley that night? If Corey wasn't the killer, then surely it must have been him. Did he attack himself in a fit of rage? Did he try to tear himself to pieces and ultimately fail? Was that why he had been able to sense the killer behind him, because he was actually inside of him?

"I-I'm sorry," Dom stammered, taking in a shaky breath and feeling it all whoosh right out again, darkness curling in the corners of his vision as he struggled for oxygen.

"Um, are you okay?" Tom felt strangely inadequate and weak, as though he should be helping this man when he had no idea what to do.

"I'm fine," Dom spat, lying through his teeth, and then he ran in the opposite direction, sprinting down the road and diving into one of the buildings, leaving a terrified Tom Kirk in his wake. He rushed into the work place, stumbling up the stairs to his office. He was already ten minutes late and he had promised his boss that he would be alert and ready to do whatever he was required to do. He was sure that, despite being given paid leave, he would be expected to do more because of the week he had off.

He sat in the familiar desk chair and tried to ground himself, taking in the smell of the room and the feel of his hands resting on the cool wood of his desk. He closed his eyes and rested his head back in the chair, having never been so grateful for the scratchy fabric in his life. He inhaled, taking with him the scent of paper and ocean-scented air freshener. The sound of the computer whirring was fairly comforting, and he felt his pulse begin to slow down, his constricted chest relaxing as he was welcomed into the familiar environment. He was not the killer. He was not the killer. He couldn't be.

"Howard! Good to see you in here again!" his boss' booming voice came from the doorway and his eyes snapped open. "Missed your smiling face around here." Dom chuckled nervously, knowing he was only playing nice to butter him up. He wasn't entirely sure how much of a proper smile he could successfully pull off.

"It's nice to get back to the routine," he agreed, his eyes darting away from the door so that his boss couldn't see the lingering remnants of fear in his face.

"You know what you're doing and everything, yes?" Dom bit his lip, shooting the man an apologetic look.

"I'm afraid not, sir. Things change within a week, you know that. I'm really quite lost." Not to mention he hadn't even looked at the papers set out for him on the table there.

"Dominic, you usually keep up with the work. I understand that you've been ill, but I expected better of you," he sighed, and then began to explain the work Dominic was required to do. The blonde was afraid to ask when he was confused, knowing his boss' short temper, so he simply nodded and 'um'-ed when he was expected to. Finally he was asked,

"Are we clear now, or should I go through it again?"

"Could you possibly just explain that last bit once more, sir?" The older man grumbled to himself and rolled his eyes.

"It was meant to be a rhetorical question!" Dom noticed a tiny bit of saliva fly from his lips as he banged his fist down on the desk. He jumped slightly, and then looked at the man in front of him, waiting for the ear-splitting shout. His boss was known for letting his anger take control of him, and many employees had been wrongly fired during a fit of rage. The only reason anybody stayed with the company was that they were treated well when he was in a good mood. Dom had thankfully never been the subject of a rage before, being fairly meticulous and keeping up to date with his work. Still, there was a first time for everything, and he knew he wasn't prepared.

Who knew this man's limits? Who was to say that he wouldn't go further than firing Dom?

As Dom sat fidgeting in his seat and worrying himself silly about the possibility of getting fired and being evicted from his flat, as well as all the consequences that would come from that, his boss explained the work once more.

"There. Do you get it now?" he was asked, the sharp tone of the boss' voice hinting at exasperation and a need to get back to his own work. Dom felt his cheeks flush and he didn't answer, instead pulling some papers into his lap and beginning to work on them. The man peered over his shoulder and watched as Dominic made three mistakes in a row before ripping it from his hands.

"Did you even listen to a word I said?" he yelled, Dom trembling as he looked up at the other man. "Look at me and answer me honestly! Did you listen?"

"I was trying, sir, honestly."

"Trying isn't good enough, Dominic! We want the best. You can't try and then get it wrong and expect us to accept it!" He continued to rant as Dominic focused on the movements of his mouth, on the way his eyebrows arched and his finger pointed at the sheets, prodding them as they swing between his fingertips.

_Killer. Killer._

He was the killer, Dominic was sure of it. His hands clutched the armrests of his desk chair tightly, knuckles white with tension as he scanned the room for a safe exit.

The loud roar of his boss' shouting accompanied the pounding of his heart as it started to race again, merely fifteen minutes after his encounter with the journalist. This couldn't be normal, could it?

Who was the killer? Him? His boss? Anybody?

"Do you need to see a doctor or something?" the phrase snapped him out of his thinking and he breathed,

"What?" between gasps.

"You're hyperventilating, Dominic. This isn't like you. I think you should see someone."

"I'm fine, really. I must get this work done."

"Go and see the doctor. Take the day off. You're not fit to come back to work yet." Dominic shook his head violently, the long hair beside his ears flicking into his eyes.

"I have to do it. I have to get this done. I didn't do anything last week. If I don't do it now, I'm pretty much useless."

"Dominic, I'm ordering you to go and see a doctor. Get out of this office and don't come back until you're healthy again," the boss demanded, pointing at the door until Dominic picked up his bag and left.

He was going to see the doctor, but not the doctor he was expected to see. There was only one doctor he liked, and he just hoped that he wasn't interrupting anything.

Which he was.

"Dr Bellamy! Dr Bellamy, I think I'm the killer! Help me, _please,_ " Dom begged between pants as he hurried up the road towards Matthew's house, the slight brunette watching with wide eyes as his newest patient race up to him and barged past the police officer standing on his doorstep. "I think it might be me. I'm not sure but who else would have known that I was there that night? Who else would have known what happened so well? It has to be me."

Matthew glanced over at DI Wolstenholme, who was watching Dominic with raised eyebrows and had his arms folded over his chest.

"Dominic, calm down," Matthew said softly, trying to soothe him into a state that would be acceptable to present to the inspector. "You're not the killer, okay?"

"I'm not sure, Matthew. You should get away from me. I'm not safe!" He stepped back off from the doorstep and tripped over his own feet, landing on his backside in the garden staring up at the two men. Chris cracked the first smile of the day, staring down at the panicked man in the garden, sat among the few flowers there.

"Mate, you don't look much like a killer to me," Chris stated with a chuckle. "You wouldn't hurt a fly."

"I've killed people! I- I stole their insides and I ate them all up, one by one, yum yum _yum_ ," Dom cried, waving his arms hysterically. "They were brilliant, those five people in my dinner, tasted like chicken, yes, yes, I killed them and I'll kill you too!"

Chris' laughter stopped abruptly and he looked at Matthew warily.

"Uhm...yes, my patient is incredibly distressed at the moment, hence why he is coming to see me," Matthew explained hurriedly, bending down to try and reassure Dominic. He refused to look at the inspector, as he knew what he would find. The cogs were turning in Chris' mind as he processed what Dom had said. They still hadn't figured out why the internal organs had been removed. Was the killer actually keeping them and eating them? He had assumed that they were taking trophies as a way of celebrating their killer, but perhaps he had been incorrect. He would need to check with the rest of the force and all the evidence, but this new lead could help them find the killer. Surely it wouldn't be easy to hide human organs around, would it?

"Hold on," Chris began, looking at Dominic where Matthew was softly talking to him on the floor, watching the madness begin to drain from his face. "Don't I know you? I've seen you before, I'm sure."

"He's Dominic Howard. He was attacked last week, so I'm not surprised you recognise him." Chris' eyes lit up with recognition and he bent down beside Matthew. They crouched over Dominic's prone form together, Chris observing and Matthew gently asking Dominic a few questions.

"What's your name?" he questioned.

"Dominic."

"Full name?"

"Dominic James Howard."

"Where are you, Dominic?" Dominic blinked and squinted at the bright sky.

"Your house."

"Where is that?"

"Boston. UK." Matthew nodded, checking his wrist for the watch he kept there. The face was small and round, the ticking hands elegantly styled.

"Dominic Howard, you are at my home in Boston and it is nine forty-eight AM. You are not a killer." Dom nodded at him, able to feel grass tickling the back of his head. Matthew reached down to check his pulse, pressing two fingers against the skin of his neck. It was steady, naturally faster than the woman he'd killed on Saturday night but still relaxed. Satisfied, he sat back on his haunches and allowed Dominic to sit up. The blonde held a hand to his head as he righted himself, looking up at Chris and not sparing a glance for Matthew.

"I'm so sorry," he apologised, pulling a face as he realised what he done, "I don't really think I'm the killer. I'm not a killer." He shook his head and Chris gave him a small smile.

"Don't worry, I didn't think you were anyway," he admitted, holding his hands out to help Dom to his feet. "Although you did give me another end to chase up, which helps. How did you know about that?"

"About what?"

"What the killer is doing with the organs? Or about the organs in the first place?" Dom shrugged.

"I was in the hospital for a few days. Gossip gets around to the patients eventually, I guess. I just formed my own theories. I don't really know what they're doing with them."

"Well, nobody came up with that in the station. I've got a bit more research to do, it seems." He turned away from Dominic and held his hand out for Matthew to take. They shook hands, Matthew eyeing the inspector and hiding his contempt behind a mask of professionalism.

"Thank you for speaking to me today, Dr Bellamy."

"Wasn't a problem," Matthew quipped. "I hope that you find whoever is doing these terrible deeds soon."

"If only I could promise it. We are doing our best, and I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that something comes up soon. This guy is a clever little bugger, though."

Indeed he is, Matthew thought to himself, stepping inside his house as a subtle reminder that Chris was on his territory.

"Well, I can only wish you good luck, then!"

"Thank you, Dr. You've been kind this morning, and hopefully I can return that kindness one day."

"That would be most welcome, I'm sure." Matthew suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, instead looking over at Dominic with a smile. The blonde was watching the exchange quietly, standing behind Chris and waiting for him to leave so that he could step inside.

"Okay. See you around, Dr Bellamy."

"Goodbye, Mr Wolstenholme." Matthew held the smile for three seconds after Chris turned his back and walked towards the car parked in front of his house before he turned to Dominic, dropping the 'nice guy' facade for the next level: interested.

He stepped into the house and out of sight, leaving the front door wide open. Dominic stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click. He peered down the hallway to try and see where Matthew had gone but couldn't find him in sight. Slowly, he made his way down the hall, taking more time to take in the pictures lining the walls. One was a photograph of a town somewhere in Europe, the breathtaking view of a cerulean lake sparkling in the sun, the mountain range rising up to the heavens behind it. Little houses were clustered around the edges of the lake, colours of peach and faded whitewash decorating the scene. A tiny boat was making its way out towards the middle of the lake, and a few people were standing around the outside. It all looked lovely and peaceful, like a place from a fairytale.

"That's Lago di Como in Italy."

Dominic heard Matthew's voice from behind him and started, whipping around to face the man. The first thing he noticed was that his eyes were the exact colour of the lake, his lips the colour of the clouds in the setting sunlight.

"Have you been?" Dominic asked, turning back to the photo and staring at it in awe.

"I spent two months there when I finished university, yes. It's such a beautiful place. Looks even more stunning in real life."

"Is that even possible?" Matthew chuckled lightly.

"Yes, Dominic, as much as it may surprise you, it's a lot nicer to actually be there. You can really take in the area and appreciate it to the fullest. Smell the scent of flowers in the air and listen to the Italians talking around you. And they make the best meals in Italy, of course." Dom smiled and turned back to Matthew.

"Do you speak much Italian?" he asked, curiosity lighting his face.  Matthew ignored the question, instead posing one of his own.

"Dominic, why did you come here today?" Dom scratched the back of his neck, trying to remember the initial reason. He had witnessed a lot since he panicked in the street with Tom Kirk, and he struggled to remember the exact reason. Matthew's mouth twitched as he realised Dom had forgotten already. He waved at him to follow him into the study, taking his book from his desk and beginning to note down the problems Dominic was having.

"Do you remember what you said when you arrived here?"

"I...I told you that I am the killer," Dom said, realisation slowly hitting him. Matthew could see his expression change as Dominic suddenly understood what he had said in front of Chris. At first the colour drained from his face, leaving him with an unnatural pallor, and then it returned so that his cheeks were glowing red with embarrassment. He looked helplessly to Matthew. "I'm not the killer! You didn't believe me, did you? I'm not the killer, Ma-Dr Bellamy, I swear!"

"I know you're not the killer, and Mr Wolstenholme also knows this. The question is: what made you think you were the killer?" Dom shrugged. "Did something trigger this?"

"I was asked who I thought the killer was. And then I thought it was me. It makes sense, really. I could understand if it was me, but I wouldn't like it." Matthew frowned to himself, tapping his pen on the table. Knowing who the real killer was obviously left him at an advantage, but he couldn't conceive how Dominic could possible believe it was him and then confess not to know.

"Dominic, do you have delusions often?"

Dom's breath catching in his throat was enough confirmation for Matthew, but he waited for Dominic to agree.

"How did you know that? I don't recall telling you before."

"You probably deluded yourself into thinking you were the killer. It often happens to people in your situation."

"My...situation?" Dominic hadn't heard of many stories of people surviving a serial killer attack. Of course it had to happen, but it wasn't widely spoken about. He supposed that they had fallen off the radar due to their own difficulties, the fame of the killers themselves making the victims fade into the background. Nobody cared about the general public and their mundane lifestyles.

"People under intense pressure. This isn't just pressure from the workplace or a deadline. Often people don't realise they are under pressure until they snap. This may be the case with you, Dominic. I assume this is why you came to me in the first place."

"I was told to. I was told that I wasn't stable."

"And don't you think you just proved that?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I've been waiting for this one so I can give you this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HzY_ZrMQE4  
> I found this after I wrote The Scene and thought it fit perfectly, so you should definitely listen to it.

Matthew was a hungry person, and by the end of the week, he was desperate for more, almost able to hear his stomach rumble even when fully satisfied. He would have to go out again, and he sat at his dining table, staring at the cutlery resting on the empty plate as he tried to concoct a cunning plan. His most creative yet, he rushed up to the attic to start preparing, leaving his empty plate on the table and the cooking equipment sat unwashed in the kitchen.

It was Friday night and the heat had finally reached its peak. The bar he passed by on the outskirts of the city was packed with men watching the football game, groaning when the team member kicked the ball towards the goal and missed. It bounced off the post and back into his face, knocking him to the floor. Matthew watched the men despairing as the bloke on telly rolled over on the turf and clutched his head, screaming into the floor. _Philistines._

He eyed a particularly drunk looking man and licked his lips. The bloke certainly wasn't his usual type, but he had a need and he was going to serve it. He watched as the man lugged his weight away from the crowd by the TV to get yet another beer from the bar, stumbling over his own feet as he bellowed with laughter. His hair was thinning and Matthew could see from a distance how bleary his eyes looked.

He stayed sat behind the pub and peered through the windows until he saw the man pick himself up from the seat and leave, slurring goodbye to his mates rather loudly and falling out of the door. Matthew raced down the side of the road and dipped down into a darker corner where he knew he wouldn't be spotted unless people were looking for him expressly.

Mark Evans walked down the street towards his house and glanced at the corner where it was rumoured the whores lay, just to see if perhaps it was his lucky day. He hadn't got laid for months now, and he was in need of a pick-me-up after the fail of his favourite team.

Looking into the corner, then, he could hardly believe his eyes. A gorgeous blonde was there, leaning against the fence with her hips thrust forward. She watched him with smoky eyes, twirling a long lock of golden hair around one slender finger.

"Looking for someone?" she inquired, her voice melodic and high-pitched. Mark's jaw dropped.

"I was beginning to think I'd never find her."

"You left the most obvious place ‘til last, I think. Here I am." She trailed a delicate hand down the side of her body, letting it fall, and her fingers twisted in the hem of her short skirt. She raised one eyebrow at him.

"How much do you want from me?" he asked, suddenly wishing he hadn't bought that last beer. If he couldn't afford it, he'd be devastated. Nothing was worse than getting his hopes up only to be disappointed in the end.

"For you, darling, it's free." His brown eyes widened.

"No way. You're pulling my leg, aren't you?" She shook her head. "Awesome," he breathed. "You coming, then?"

She smiled at him, her lips quite thin but still kissable enough. He grabbed her by the waist and heard a sudden, surprised intake of breath. He chuckled.

"We're gonna have some fun tonight, you and I," he whispered, trying to be seductive but failing because of how drunk he was.

He led her back to his house, one of many two-bedrooms in the town, with a plain front door and generic carpet in the hallway. He stumbled up the stairs and she followed him, her long legs managing the steps with a lot more elegance than him. He rolled on the bed, looking up as she leaned over him, a wide smile stretching across his chubby face. He could hardly believe his luck, and his drunken eyes formed perfect features out of the blur in the darkness, luscious blonde locks travelling down a silky smooth back, polished nails and lipstick his new best friends.

She crawled onto the bed, straddling him as she ran her hands through his hair. He could hardly repress a gleeful laugh as she leaned forward as though meaning to kiss him, one hand reaching behind her to fetch something from her pockets. He closed his eyes, craning his head up to meet her lips. Several seconds passed and still he didn't feel her lips on his own.

He cracked one eye open and suddenly felt a blinding pain in his thigh. He barked a shout and his back arched in agony as the knife slit down his inner thigh. Matthew sat back on his shins so that his bum rested on the backs of his legs, ripping the ratty blonde wig from his head and spitting, "Did you really think I would stoop so low?"

"Holy shit!" Mark shouted, his words choppy as he gasped around the pain in his leg, Matthew twisting the knife with an evil grin and watching as he flopped on the bed. "You're not a woman at all. You're-oh, God, am I gonna die?"

"I think you might, mate. Apologies."

He removed the knife, the blood pouring onto the sheets. Matthew paused, looking down at the crimson staining the man's bedsheets. He hadn't taken disposal into account; now he would have to bring that into the equation.

Seeing the man choking on his final breaths as they rattled in his throat, Matthew sighed in annoyance.

"Pathetic," he hissed, flicking the knife across Mark's throat as his head slammed back into the pillows, the large body falling still.

It took Matthew a whole hour to get what he wanted, and he stood in his shirt and boxers back at the bottom of the bed, having taken off his uncomfortable skirt. The packaged items were resting in the box, and the man weighed quite a lot less then he had before. In fact, his friends would hardly recognise him, and taking into account the way his face had been mauled, the police were certainly going to have a difficult time identifying the guy. He rubbed his hands together, and began hauling the body towards the window. Even after the weight loss, it was still quite a lot for Matthew to carry, and what remained of the blood was smeared across the floorboards as it was dragged towards the window.

Slapping his hands together, he slid his hands under the body, feeling the skin there crusty with dried blood. Screwing his nose up, he lifted the body, pressing it against the wall so that it would take some of the weight. Counting to three in his mind, he heaved the body over the window ledge and flung it out of the window. There was a loud thud and a slight crack as the body landed, and Matthew leant out of the window to survey the damage, giggling to himself at the man sprawled on the floor in his birthday suit, his arm twisted at what would’ve been an exceptionally painful angle if he were still alive.

He turned back and stared at the bed with the blood-stained sheets, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger as he contemplated what to do with them. In the mean time, he paced the room, stumbling across a CD player with a stack of CDs resting beside it. He scanned the titles, pulling one out from the bottom and letting the others topple over like Jenga blocks. His movements slightly clumsier because of the thick gloves, he placed the CD onto the tray and watched it slide back in, the player whirring as it processed the CD. He selected the track, the buttons clicking beneath his fingers, and pressed play.

A rhythmic clicking filled the room, a mellow voice singing along. Matthew mimed playing the piano along with the track before singing along lightly, his barely distinguishable from that on the record. He removed any traces of himself from his move, replacing the uncomfortable wig and skirt and going over any surfaces he might have touched with a cloth just to be sure.

He slipped his freezer bag into a nondescript shopping bag, and left the house swiftly, returning to his own. As soon as he had kicked open the front door, he ripped off the wig once more but left the skirt on, laughing as he danced into the office and the skirt material spun out beneath him. The record player was still going, like he had planned it to, a recording of himself from a few months ago on repeat in the corner of the room. He turned it off, the miserable tone of the piano music nothing like what he was feeling right then.

He was always inexplicably chipper after making a kill, and as he unpacked the results of his success, he considered what he would do now that he had been harvesting for a while. Perhaps a dinner party was in order.

He entertained himself thinking of what to make and who he would add to the guest list as he made his way upstairs, flopping into bed and dreaming of Moltrasio and the sweet, sweet air.

He awoke at roughly six in the morning, slipping into a soft, pure cotton dressing gown, the material smooth against his bare skin. He cooked absently, allowing the various aromas to infuse his mind as he glanced at the clock on the wall. Dominic would be arriving soon enough, and he wanted to get ready for his favourite patient.

Three hours later, he was sat at the piano once more, perfecting an original piece. He heard a knock on the door over the music and shouted,

“Come in!” as he continued to play. Dominic tentatively pushed open the door, wondering how Matthew could possibly feel safe at night if he didn’t keep his front door locked. He heard the rumble of thunder and crashing of lightning emanating from the study, the loud piano music bouncing off the walls and high ceiling. Standing in the doorway, Dominic watched Matthew play.

His profile was lit by the sun shining through the window, highlighting the coppery tones in his hair, giving his skin a healthy glow. His eyes were focused solely on his hands as they wandered over the keys and prised out note after note, the music consuming them both. The piece slowed down in the middle, Matthew’s head swaying lightly in time as his lips parted, playing the piece to its fullest. He came alive again as it neared the end, his legs jumping on the pedals as the music leapt, quieter notes tinkling on the upper end of the piano. Matthew bent closer to it, the cobalt blue suit he was wearing sliding over his back. He let his eyes fall closed as he finished the piece, eyelashes resting on his skin.

Dominic remained speechless, and they stayed in comfortable silence as the last note of the song rang out, vibrating in the air and stirring up what lingered between them.

Matthew sat back, then, the piano stool creaking slightly under the shift of weight, and waved at Dominic.

“You like it?” he inquired, tilting his head to the side. Dominic nodded earnestly.

“Oh, yes, it’s beautiful,” he breathed, still astounded. “No, that’s not the right word. It’s...I don’t know. It just is, and it’s wonderful.”

Matthew’s face lit up in a genuine smile, his lips parting to reveal a slightly crooked tooth.

“I’m thinking about adding an orchestra to it, just to increase the noise a bit. Not sure yet, though.”

“I wouldn’t. I mean, I don’t know anything about composition, but I think it sounds perfect just like that.” Matthew turned to his side, hiding a secret smile.

“Maybe I won’t, then. It would be quite difficult.”

He flicked off the recording device, and he would replay it at night sometimes just to hear Dominic’s appreciation. Standing up, he turned to face Dominic, smoothing down the velvet flaps of his suit. Dominic bit his lip, wondering how the suit felt on his skin. _Is he wearing anything under there? No, Dominic, shut up._

“What are you thinking, Dominic? You’re pulling a strange face.” Dominic felt heat crawl up the back of his neck and he shook his head, staring at the floor as he shuffled over to Matthew’s desk, sitting down without needing to be invited. Matthew watched him curiously, pulling his book from the drawer in the desk and flipping Dominic’s page. He mused over what to say to him, and eventually settled for a plain,

“How have you been holding up this week?” Dominic shrugged.

“I haven’t been back to work, so I’ve been really bored.” Matthew frowned and he elaborated. “My boss told me not to come back until I was well again. And I’m not even sure what he means by that. Like, I don’t know, maybe I’ve got a fever or something and it just needs to break.”

Matthew laughed lightly, before pressing his lips tightly together, restraining his mocking.

“Dominic, I’m afraid to say, you’re not ill in a physical sense. If you had a fever, you would surely be experiencing many other symptoms.”

“Oh.” Dominic licked his lip, his mouth painfully dry as he waited for an answer. His hands shook slightly, and he pressed them between his thighs so that Matthew couldn’t see.

“Your problem is most likely psychological, which is why you have been referred to me. Perhaps you’re scared of being diagnosed with something and that’s why you keep deluding yourself into thinking you’re fine, but you are unwell, Dominic.”

“I’m fine, really, Dr Bellamy. I haven’t had any problems this week.”

“What do you mean by problems?”

“Well, like, when I thought I was the killer. Since then I’ve been fine. I know I’m not the killer.” Matthew clasped his hands together, already beginning to get tired of going over the same thing again and again, Dominic refusing to accept it. Most people were willing to take a diagnosis, yet he was stubbornly ignoring any sort of label.

“Dominic, you know that’s not the extent of your problems.”

Dominic blinked at him.

“You know. I asked the hospital about you and about why they sent you here. They tell me you have delusions and hallucinations. Is that true?” Dominic shook his head slowly, eyebrows drawn together.

“Only once, when I was in the hospital. And I think that was caused by the meds I was on, so it’s not really my mind, is it?” Matthew raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think causes you to accuse people of being the killer, Dominic?”

“The fact that it could be anyone. Everyone looks like a killer to me.”

“Do _I_ look like a killer to you?”

Dominic looked up and stared right into Matthew’s eyes, watching him closely. Could this man kill people? Could those leanly muscled arms carve a body open? Could those piercing blue eyes watch his own hands take a person’s life?

“Yes.”

Mark Evans’ phone rang at half past eleven, but there was no answer.

During his lunch break, one of his co-workers went round to his house, rapping on the door and tapping foot impatiently when he didn’t receive a reply for over five minutes. He rang both the home phone and the mobile phone, but there was no answer.

Stepping off the doorstep, he peered through the window into Mark’s front room. It didn’t look like anybody was there, and stepping around the side of the house to check if he was in the garden, there was still no sign of the other man. He could see the window open on the side of the house and shouted up again, getting worried about his friend. Mark never went out with anybody other than him, and he knew that his Saturdays were always free to go and play-or, in Mark’s case, watch him play-with the local team down the park.

Finally, he gave in and pulled back the doormat, finding the spare key and unlocking the door. He shook off the uneasy feeling and called out again.

“Mark? Mate, where are you?”

After searching the entire lower floor, he climbed the stairs, suddenly realising that his friend might be in the shower and laughing at him. He knocked the bathroom door, but it swung open beneath his touch, so Mark obviously wasn’t in there. He came to the closed door of Mark’s bedroom and paused, unsure whether he wanted to trespass. There was something different about somebody’s bedroom to the rest of their house, an invisible boundary people needed permission to cross. Staring at the door that blocked him from checking in on his friend, he stood and worried the hem of his shirt.

He could hear music playing from within the room.

“Mark?”

Still no answer.

He sighed, steeling himself for whatever he might find, and pushed open the door. Slowly, the bedroom was revealed. He stepped over the threshold and looked over to the bed.

“Oh s-shit,” he gasped, stunned into stillness as he stared at the sheets. Dark blood covered them, having pooled in the dip in the middle and dried on the pale covers. “Mark? Mark, where the hell are you? What’s happened?” Voice strained now. He stepped further into the room, ignoring the sheets as he looked around for his friend. There wasn’t a trace of him anywhere.

The music was still playing, taunting him as he rushed through the whole upper floor, yelling Mark’s name. He wasn’t in any of the rooms, wasn’t hiding from him in the airing cupboard, hadn’t gone out to get something from the garage and not returned.

Returning the bedroom, he fumbled for his phone in his pocket. He knew that the killer was around, and the blood on the bedsheets did look to be a rather larger amount than he had originally thought. Dialling the number, he lifted his phone to his ear, worrying his lip with his teeth and tasting bitterness in his mouth. He stared out of the window, able to see the end of Mark’s garden from where he was sat.

Just as he was put through to somebody who would take his call, he moved closer to the window, wondering if he was sat on the patio and he just hadn’t checked properly. His mouth moved of his own accord as he leant out of the window and looked down.

The phone fell from his hands and bounced off the window ledge, falling to the bedroom floor. He could hear a distant buzzing and the music which he hadn’t bothered to turn off, but it didn’t register.

When the police arrived at the scene, they found him still kneeling in front of the window, his jaw dropped in horror. Somebody led him away from the room, him still looking over his shoulder even when it was out of sight.

DI Wolstenholme stood in the bedroom and peered out at the same view, seeing Mark Evans prone on the floor as the forensics team worked around him, snapping pictures and taking samples just as they had with all the previous bodies. All the ones who had been found in alleyways and dark corners of the roads.

And yet this one was killed at home.

He stepped back to go over the sheets again, trying to find a hair, an eyelash, anything to identify the killer. The sheets were clean-aside from the blood that had dried black in splotches-and he groaned to himself. The elusive killer was running them around and around in the same circles. Chris hoped whoever killed this man was enjoying the game, because they certainly weren’t.

Why had he been killed here? What had led the killer to this man’s house instead of catching him down the road? If Chris knew the type, then he was one of those who would go out for a beer when he was free from work and maybe watch the footy with his mates. He had seen it all before, and would even have been one of those guys if he wasn’t so focused on work all the time.

And how had they even got in the house? What sort of person would let a stranger into their house, into their bedroom, without asking who they were or being careful about it? He knew that he wouldn’t just let somebody walk straight through without checking beforehand. And that wasn’t just a lifestyle he’d developed because of the dangers of his job. He knew that most people would be wary of who they talked to, especially during a time like this.

So why had Mark been so careless?

Unless he had known the killer. What if he had been friends with someone who was committing these deeds, and had let them in thinking they were here for a friendly chat? Chris’ eyes lit up with a rare hope, and he let his mind wander down the path of the more unlikely but still plausible suggestions. Maybe Mark had some information about his friend and was threatening to give it to the police, so he was killed as a method of keeping him quiet.

He called in the woman who was standing guard outside, who tried to walk straight in and got tangled in the tape that covered the room.

“Get me a list of Mark’s friends and acquaintances. I think he might have known the killer,” he ordered, not looking at the woman.

“How about the man outside, sir?” Chris shook his head, having seen many victims not of the crimes but being the first upon the scene. It could ruin you, looking out and feeling as though you witnessed the crime. Feeling as though you were too late to save them.

“No, he won’t be the killer. Not even a skilled actor could pull that off. He’s never seen this scene before, and probably never seen a dead body before.” He paused, rethinking his decision. “In fact, don’t ask him about Mark’s friends. Get the information from employers, relatives, etcetera. He’s too shaken up to give you anything of use right now.”

She nodded at him, leaving the room and shooting the CD player a curious look. Nobody had turned it off since Matthew put it on in the middle of the night.

Chris pulled on the latex gloves and started to search the room for information. He pulled books off shelves, flipping through the pages for concealed sheets; he turned the whole place upside, leaving the bed unmarked, looking for what he would never find. All he was hoping for was a clue that Mark may have stumbled across, a witness to the crimes or evidence that his friend had killed before. It could be a photo or a suspicious note that would cancel out somebody’s alibi.

In fact, he had to start checking up on people’s alibis. They had visited the town asking for potential witnesses and studying those with strange actions, but they hadn’t yet asked about alibis. Now that the attacks had been going on for several weeks, he would have to start acting, otherwise the public would get distressed. He wondered briefly what Tom Kirk’s newest article would say, having heard that he was going around asking for the public’s opinion in a desperate attempt to get more readers than the rival newspaper.

And he wanted to look up more about Dominic’s suggestion. He had heard all the horror stories about cannibals, psychopathic serial killers frightening the world since before his birth, but he needed to do some research. Knowing the details would hopefully help him figure out how to catch such a monster, as well as determining if it was even possible for somebody to have stolen the organs just to eat them. He had been so sure they were trophies.

And then there was Dominic, too. Despite knowing that he wasn’t the killer, his instability was worrying him. Their only survivor, Dominic was very valuable to the force, but with his mental state deteriorating, he wasn’t sure how much use he would be. Perhaps a visit to Dr Bellamy was in order.

Chris left the room, jogging down the stairs to supervise the movement of the body to the hospital before beginning to check off the activities on his list. The CD spun in the player, clicking as Killer Queen started to play again.


	11. Chapter 11

Dominic had gone back to the hospital in the afternoon after his session with Dr Bellamy, chatting with Angie while he waited to be seen. The old man who’d grumbled at him while they were staying on the ward came out of the examination room, and he shot Dominic a dirty look before he left.

“Hey, mate,” Dom called after him, folding his arms over his chest and standing up, “What was that all about?” The man rolled his eyes and stayed on track towards the doors. “Seriously, man, you’ve held some grudge against me since the beginning. What’s your problem?”

The man stopped in the corridor and turned to look at Dominic, eyeing him suspiciously and tapping his foot at him.

“Are you serious?” he asked, incredulity sharpening his tone. Dom shrugged. “You made a mess of the place! Thinking that you could get the attention by screaming for the nurses and begging to go home to Mummy. Look, hot shot, all the rest of us hated that place too, but did you hear us crying out in the night and disturbing everyone else?” He waved his arms around angrily to articulate his speech, “No, you didn’t. We’re grown-ups, and you need to learn. You might have escaped, but next time you’ll be too busy crying your eyes out to even notice what’s coming until he’s upon you. And then you won’t be so lucky.”

Having finished his rant, he took a deep breath and spun on his heel, pushing through the doors and letting them swing shut, the dramatic effect slightly muted by the slow safety click. Dom stared after him, frozen to the spot. He felt Angie’s hand on his arm as she told him to go into the examination room, but he walked in a daze, ignoring everyone as he delved into his thoughts. Was he a cry-baby? Perhaps he should have been more mature about the situation. Maybe even going to see Matthew was a ridiculous, subconscious cry for attention. After all, there wasn’t really anything wrong with him, was there?

He breezed through the usual routine, the doctor checking his dressing for infection and cleaning it. However, it wasn’t replaced with a fresh bandage. Instead, Dominic was handed a sheet of instructions on how to keep his wound from reopening, the ‘do’s and ‘don’t’s disappearing even to the other side of the sheet. Dominic read them through with increasingly widening eyes while the doctor fiddled about with the gash on his arm, removing the stitches with a pair of tweezers.

Finally, when Dom had put his shirt on once more and was sat in the chair, the doctor sat down beside him and asked about his sessions with Matthew.

“Um, they’re...they’re alright, I guess,” Dom answered, interlocking his fingers so that he didn’t reach to scratch his neck as he always did. He knew it gave him away.

“Have you come to a conclusion yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, have you figured out if there is anything you can really do about your psychological state? To put it bluntly, have you been given a diagnosis yet?”

Dominic shook his head sadly.

“If he’s diagnosed me, he hasn’t told me what with, yet.”

“I wonder what his treatment is like,” the doctor mused. “Surely you can’t treat someone unless you know what’s wrong with them, otherwise you could mess it up.”

Dominic’s eyebrows rose slightly as he processed the doctor’s words. He didn’t want Matthew to mess him up. He already felt messed up already, so somebody else interfering with his life could only mean bad news.

“Do you trust him? You know that you’re free to change psychiatrists whenever you like, yes?”

“Why would I want to change? Is there something I don’t know?” The doctor shook his head hurriedly, realising that Dominic might be a bit more delicate than his usual patients.

“No, no, you just seemed a bit put off that you haven’t been given a diagnosis. I’m not suggesting you change, I’m just saying that the chance is there if you want to.” Dominic leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“I won’t change. Dr Bellamy appreciates that I’m wary of this sort of thing, and I’d say it’s too early to know whether he’s helping. I’ve only had two sessions.” He didn’t mention Monday’s episode.

“Of course. That’s fine. I did take some of Dr Bellamy’s notes, although they weren’t particularly extensive.” Dominic frowned outright at that.

“He always seems to be making notes during our sessions. He rarely ever looks up from his book.” _And whenever he does,_ Dominic thought, _he pins me to the seat._ The doctor pursed his lips, flipping through the two sheets he had been given and scanning them.

“He’s said that you have the occasional delusion and that you’ve been having some...well, he said ‘personality crises’.” Dom barked a bitter laugh. “But that’s all I’ve really received. Most of what he has written just details your personal life.”

“We talk about that a lot. He said it’s to help get a background so that he knows how to proceed with me. Something about different people responding to different therapies. Although we still haven’t covered much.”

“You trust him.” It wasn’t a question this time. Dominic looked away, biting his lip.

“It’s not so much trust as...I don’t know what it is. I believe him. Maybe it’s just that he seems genuine. I feel like he’s helping me. I feel like something’s actually happening in that room.”

The doctor nodded absently, doodling in the corner of the page. Matthew had drawn his own little picture there; a heart wrapped in paper and sent in the post to a little waving man. He added a devil’s tail to the man and coloured in the wrapping paper so that he couldn’t see the heart.

In the other corner, Dominic’s profile. It was crudely down, the pen slightly shaky, but he could tell it was Dominic from the sloping nose and the hair curling around his ears. He wondered what Matthew had taken off of the photocopied version and how much time he really spent doodling when in Dominic’s presence.

It was hard to resist showing these to Dominic himself.

“I’m glad that something’s working for you, Dominic. Hopefully your luck will hold out, and things will get better again.” Dominic nodded and shook himself, thinking to himself when he walked out that surviving wasn’t what he’d call lucky.

He had pinned the list of requirements to his fridge in the tiny kitchen of his flat, and he saw it there on Sunday morning, glugging a glass of orange juice as he looked out of the window. The weather looked gorgeous, the sun beating down on the lush grass outside. Dominic had always loved summer, his childhood filled with playing footie in the park during the summer holidays. The beach was his home, and the feeling of warmth on his skin was irresistible.

He changed into some shorts and a V-neck t-shirt, ignoring the list as he passed by it, and went outside. He was determined to go to the park like he had nearly two weeks before. He was going to jog and ignore the slight burn in his side as the wound strained, was going to feel the pleasant stretch of the muscles in his legs as he worked out, was going to feel alive again. Maybe all he needed was fresh air and a bit of exercise.

Stretching his legs and holding onto the fence as he lifted one leg off the ground, he wobbled slightly as he stared up at the sun, squinting and laughing to himself for no particular reason. The air was warm but not stifling, the heatwave coming to a close and making way for a pleasant summer. Onlookers wouldn’t know there was anything strange about the man; in fact, he was only gaining looks because of how at home he looked in the sun, the light bouncing off his golden hair and bright teeth. Girls topping up their tans in the park stared through the railings at the toned blonde as he set off on his jog, sighing when he ran out of sight. _Maybe next time._

Dominic followed his old route throughout the town but took the occasional detour to avoid the people on the streets. Usually he enjoyed running in public, the eyes following him more than welcome and even encouraged, but that day he was more focused on enjoying being outside once again. The air drifted in and out of his lungs in a regular rhythm, his feet pounding in time to a song inside his head; Dominic didn’t like to listen to music when he was out for a run, instead saving it for indoor activities. Listening to the sounds around him-the slapping of his trainers on concrete, the chatter of people in the distance, cars rushing past and the air thrumming with a tangible summer excitement-that was one of the most important parts of being outside. If you weren’t going to appreciate it, why bother?

He turned right instead of left on one of his usual roads, avoiding the crowds so that he could be by himself. He’d been running for about half an hour and had built up quite a sweat, his skin glistening in the light and a few patches forming on his loose shirt. Dipping into the shade for a bit, he was glad to feel cool air brushing against his heated skin and tipped his head back to the sky, staring through the gaps in the branches at the deep blue above him.

It was refreshing to be out of the house and back to a relative normality. He felt a smile spread across his lips, the first natural smile in a while, and wondered if he could manage this every day. He had been told not to exercise heavily, yes, but it hadn’t been causing him any pain. Perhaps he was healing faster than they had assumed he was. And, if so, surely that meant he could be going back to work? Surely he could be getting his life back on track? Yes, he had almost been the victim of the worst of crimes, but he could pull himself out of that hole, couldn’t he? He had Matthew as his crutch and, if only he could get them to forgive him, his friends as his support.

He continued to run, the canopy above him thickening and the sunlight only streaming through in tiny rays, highlighting little sections of the path so that Dominic could just about see the sticks and stones in his way. The hedges and overgrown weeds on the edge of the little path hid him from sight, and he was encased in a leafy tunnel, the light at the end barely visible at this point.

He found it harder to retain his steady pace after he had been jogging for so long, and he cursed his ailments, sure that he had lost his touch. How much longer would it take for him to rebuild that stamina again? Still, his internal grumbling couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, nor could the sudden gust of wind that raised goosebumps on his arm.

As he was nearing the end of the path, something caught his eye and he turned his head towards it, his jog slowing as it registered in his mind.

There was a person hanging over the strongest tree branch, their face hidden by deep emerald leaves, Dominic’s eyes first drawn to the yellow veins that streaked through the epidermis. Slowly, he focused on the long hair that flopped over the side of the branch, the limp arms that dropped from the body and swung lightly in the breeze, the patches of scarlet decorating the path like little discs scattered haphazardly by a reckless gift-giver.

He stared at the body, and then slowly took a step closer, leaning around so that he could see the face. A young girl’s eyes stared back at him, his slate grey wide and unblinking, hers glassy and frozen. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, yet there was a pain he could see from her final moments that rivalled the wisdom of a hundred ancients. She knew things. She knew things that Dominic knew and she knew even more things that he didn’t.

He prodded the body with a stick and the leaves rustled, the wind whispering through them and keeping their secrets from him.

“You did this,” they called, “this is your fault.” A dog barked in the distance.

“Damn it, Dominic, if you’d only looked behind to see who was there,” it yelled at him, assaulting his ears, “You should’ve just died. You’d be more use dead than alive, and you knew it.”

“This girl died and you killed her. You tore her throat out with your bare hands and ripped through her sinews, and you had blood staining your lips. I bet you couldn’t even get it out from under your nails.”

Panic-stricken, Dominic lifted his hands to his face, curling his fingers and staring under the nails for traces of crusty blood. His hands trembled as he stared at them, holding them so close that he could see the individual lines on the back of his hands, the skin wrinkling at his knuckles.

“The only reason you didn’t see anyone was because it’s you,” they howled.

“N-no! It’s not me! I’m not the killer!” he screamed, his voice tainted with anguish. “Matthew said I’m not the killer and I believe him.”

“He’s lying, Dominic,” they sang, the mocking evident in their ethereal voices, Dominic’s knees buckling as he stared at the sky and searched for them among the branches. The smile was still pinned to his face, but his lips wobbled, his skin straining to hold itself together. “He’s lying to trick you. You’re the one who did this, and you’re such a bad boy.”

“No, it wasn’t, I promise!” he wailed, falling to the floor and sobbing into his hands. He streaked a finger through the wetness that dripped from his eyes, examining it on the tip of his finger. A bead of crimson shone in the minimal light, and his eyes blurred with unshed tears as he stared at it, the blood that came from his eyes. He hurriedly wiped the back of his hand underneath his eyes, the voices around him hissing as he knelt on the path with his head bent towards the floor. His hands came away smeared with redness.

He screamed something unintelligible, an inhuman noise forcing its way from his throat as he finally collapsed to the floor, his legs thrashing and his hands pressed tightly over his ears. The voices infiltrated the gaps between his fingers, dancing around his head and laughing at him, watching as he curled in on himself, feeling like his chest had been ripped open. The tears continued to fall just as steadily as he had jogged, pooling on the floor in front of him and soaking the ground. His erratic heartbeat was the only reminder that he existed. All memories of his pleasant jog had been erased when the smile fell from his face as he hit the ground.

A young boy walking past the end of the path had heard his cries, and he warily peered down, trying to make out the figure collapsed in the middle of the path. He beckoned his friend over, too afraid to face the darkness alone, and together the two ventured down the path. They could see Dominic prostrate on the floor, kicking and screaming as though having a fit, and exchanged terrified glances. Backing away, as soon as they returned to the light, they ran for the adjacent road.

“Somebody help!” they cried, waving their arms for attention. “Please, anyone!”

Matthew Bellamy, hearing the shouts, spared them a sidelong glance. Another woman who had been walking towards him instead changed direction and made her way over to the kids, following them as they led her down the footpath. There were a few moments of silence, in which Matthew settled himself on a bench and looked knowingly at the end of the path, and then a scream cut through the air.

The three people reappeared from within the tunnel of foliage and dispersed, the two kids running towards the main road to get help while the woman raced towards Matthew. He stood up as she approached him, brushing the back of his trousers and putting his hands in his pockets.

“Sir, I’d hate to be a bother, but there-there seems to have been, a, problem,” she gasped, talking before she had reached him and then turning back towards the path as soon as she knew she had his attention. “Well, more than a problem, really. There’s a young man down the path and...a dead girl-oh! Goodness, I have no idea what to do.”

He followed her down the path, feeling the cold, stale air settling on his skin as they walked into the shade. As his eyes adjusted to the lower level of light, he could see the man lying in the path, and had a sudden realisation. He fought to keep the smile off his face and his lips twitched as they got closer to the crying man, his thoughts confirmed. There was Dominic, sobbing over a girl he didn’t know and ripping himself to pieces because of things that weren’t real and things he didn’t feel. Matthew wondered why exactly the blonde felt it was necessary to get so worked up over every little thing.

The woman looked uneasily at Matthew and gestured at the girl hanging in the tree, turning her head away so she didn’t have to look. Neither could see her very well, so couldn’t deduce exactly what had happened, but the memory was fresh in Matthew’s mind.

_And then I cut her up and extracted my prize_ , he reminded himself, covering his mouth with his hand in faux shock to hide the twitching of his lips, _and then I heaved her onto my shoulder and flung her onto the branch, resting a crown of leaves on her pretty head_.

_And then I realised she got blood all over my shirt, and I had to burn another one._

His lips turned down in a frown, and he removed his hand, looking at the woman and back to Dominic.

“What should we do?” she asked him quietly, and he could sense fear in her voice as she looked over at Dominic.

“I know him,” he told her, crouching down beside him just as he had on Monday morning. “He’s my friend; let me talk to him. Have you called emergency services?”

“My son should be doing that right now. They’ll be here soon, won’t they?”

“I’m sure they will.”

Bending down beside Dominic now, he kept his body slightly out of reach so that the flailing limbs didn’t hit him in the face, or other areas.

“Dominic?” he said quietly, hoping Dominic could hear him over his hands muffling the outside noises. The man flinched, curling on his side away from Matthew.

“No more,” he whispered, his voice cracking in pain, “please, no more.”

“Dominic, it’s Dr Bellamy, I’m here to help you.” Dominic moaned into the ground, shaking his head. Matthew could see the little twigs and bits of dirt clinging to Dom’s hair at this level of closeness. “Dominic, it’s Matthew. Please talk to me.”

Dominic’s jerking slowed slightly, but he still refused to look up or take his hands away from his ears.

“Dominic, I know that you’ve witnessed something terrible here today and that you’re probably very scared and shaken-up,” Matthew said, not a waver in his voice as he spoke, “but I need you to talk to me. I have to make sure that you’re alright.”

“Nnn,” Dominic mumbled into the dirt, his body stilling.

“Pardon?” Matthew kneeled down on the ground, the dust dirt covering his trouser legs.

“Not alright.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said that, it was stupid. What I mean is that I need to make sure that you are aware of what has happened. I need to know that you will recover. Will you sit up for me, Dominic?”

Slowly, the blonde lifted his head from the ground, pulling his hands away from his ears. He looked over at Matthew, their eyes locking. Electric blue met watery grey, Dominic’s cheeks shining with tear tracks, the dirt sticking to his skin in little streams. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was blotchy, quite unlike how he usually appeared to Matthew when he arrived for his sessions.

“There we go, that’s good. Are you injured at all, Dominic?” The blonde shook his head, sitting up cross-legged and facing Matthew, his hands falling limply into his lap. Matthew mirrored his position on the floor, looking up at the woman and nodding. He could hear sirens in the distance. Dominic ignored both of them. “May I see your hands, please, Dominic?”

Dominic was wary about giving his hands to Matthew, and first he stared down at them, flipping them over and scanning every inch of his skin. They were clear, only slightly shiny where his tears had fallen on them.

“They...they-no! This isn’t right,” he moaned, shaking his head as the tears threatening to spill over again.

“What’s wrong, Dominic?” Matthew leaned towards him, giving him space but remaining within reach.

“Everything. Everything’s wrong.” He shook his head in despair, squeezing his eyes shut so he couldn’t see the shame in everybody’s eyes. Matthew could hear the police car pull up at the end of the path and DI Wolstenholme’s shouting over the background noise. “T-there was blood all over them earlier. There was...no, no, no, this is all wrong.”

“Blood? Dominic, how did that get there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Just try to remember. Look at me, not your hands.” Dominic studied Matthew’s face as he tried to remember, and came up blank.

“I can’t. It was just there. All over. Everywhere, it should be there.”

Matthew paused, looking around the area as he heard heavy footsteps rushing towards them, the forgotten woman calling to them. Was Dominic hallucinating again?

“Dominic, I think we need to get you away from this place. It’s distressing you too much. Perhaps your memories won’t be as foggy once we have removed you from this place. Will you come back to my office with me?”

Dom stood up, his legs wobbling, and looked to the side to see Chris staring at him.

“Hello again, Dominic. I keep seeing you around,” he said, eyeing him curiously.

“Who is she?”

“We haven’t identified her, yet. We’ve only just got here!”

“Who is she?” he repeated, his teeth gritted as he stared past Chris at the girl hanging from the tree.

“If you’ll wait a couple of hours, I’m sure we can get you a identification, Mr Howard.” He unconsciously slipped into formality as he steadied himself, his body preparing for a fight as he looked at Dominic’s shaking body.

“I need to know. I need to know who did this.”

“We all need to know. We need to know so that we can stop it happening more, but we don’t have any information. We had hoped you would provide that, but you couldn’t.”

_You’d be more use dead than alive._

Dominic’s head whipped to Matthew, who had his arms stretched out, ready to help restrain Dominic if necessary. Grey eyes slid to the dead girl in the tree, and he whispered,

“I did this.”

“Dominic,” Matthew warned sternly, stepping closer as Dominic’s head rolled, an empty look on his face. Emotionless eyes stared at emotionless eyes, and they both stared at dead, frozen pupils, wondering what the difference was. One was dead, one was alive, and one was wavering between the two. “Dominic, come with me.”

He wrapped his fingers around Dominic’s forearm and led him away from the scene, Dominic digging the heels of his trainers into the ground like a child and kicking up the dust.

“She was mine. She was mine and you know it, don’t you, Matthew? Don’t you, Mr Wolstenholme? There was blood on my hands. Hers or mine?”

Matthew turned his face away, pulling a hysterical Dominic into the public eye.

“Hers or mine, Mr Wolstenholme!?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the 50k chapter (which was difficult but still fun to get out). Anything from here is new, but it won't be as frequent.

Once again, Dominic was sat across the desk from Matthew in the psychiatrist’s office.

“I seem to find myself in this room more than I want to be,” Dominic muttered, sitting in the chair and not bothering to look around the room like he usually did. There was no music playing today.

“Don’t you like it in here?” Matthew looked offended, but Dominic wasn’t in the right state to care.

“I don’t like the purpose of this room. I feel...criminalised in here.”

“Dominic, this is a place where you should feel at home. Perhaps outside, standing in a crime scene and screaming about how you killed the girl would make you feel criminalised, but here you are just my patient, and I am determined to help you.”

“Help me from what?” His hand slapped his legs as he threw them down, shaking his head with disbelief. “I killed a girl. I don’t need your help.” Matthew closed his eyes and rubbed circles into his forehead with the pads of his thumbs.

“You’re a lot of hard work, Dominic.”

The blonde clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth, leaning into the soft fabric of the chair and craning his head back, staring at the high ceiling. Tension thrummed between the pair, both refusing to look at each other, neither wanting to be the first to back down.

“Dominic, just... _please,_ will you try and work with me here?”

Dominic had never heard Matthew desperate. He hadn’t known him long, no, but he had seen many sides of him, and desperation was an unexpected change. For some reason, he had pinned Matthew as the type who would always get what he wanted. Slowly, he lowered his head, looking at Matthew with hopeless eyes.

Watching the pair from the outside, an onlooker might think they had a terrible history, years of fights stretching behind them. In reality, they had a few weeks of awkward situations and a couple of therapy sessions. Matthew knew almost everything about Dominic and Dominic knew almost nothing about Matthew. Yet they unconsciously shifted towards each other, Dominic tilting the chair so it faced away from the desk slightly, only to turn back towards Matthew. He rested his elbow on the desk, cradling his chin in the palm of his hand. Matthew had both hands lying on top of each other on the table, and his body leaned forwards as he spoke softly to Dominic.

“Matthew, I think I’m the killer.” For once, he wasn’t interrupted with questions, instead allowed to go on. “I think I’m the killer and it scares me because I don’t remember it. I don’t remember hurting those people but I’m so sure that I did it.”

“How did you feel when you stumbled upon the girl in the tree?”

“Guilty.”

Matthew pursed his lips and Dominic’s eyes followed the movements.

“Dominic, it is possible that you could be suffering from something a lot more serious than simple traumatic stress. Blacking out and even dissociating could mean that perhaps you did go out and did those deeds, but now you don’t remember it. It is entirely plausible, but I don’t think you did.”

“How can you be sure?” Dominic whispered, the fear vibrating in his voice, manifested as tiny cracks and wobbles. Matthew’s sensitive ears picked up everything.

“Have you dissociated before? Have you lost time?”

“Not that I am aware of,” he said slowly. “Although that sounds absolutely terrifying.”

Matthew nodded knowingly.

“So you have not lost time, and you, yourself-you’re not a killer, Dominic.”

“But how do you know?” His voice was little more than a hiss at this point, his elbows lifted from the table to grip the armrests of the chair.

“Tell me, Dominic. Do you honestly think, from the bottom of your heart, that you could kill somebody?”

Dominic bit his lip, able to taste the salty remnants of his earlier tears.

“Maybe.”

Matthew got up from behind the desk and walked around to Dominic’s side, holding a hand out for him to take. He helped him out of the seat, Dominic’s eyebrows drawn together, and led him out of the officer further into the heart of the house. Opening the door, he revealed the spotless room with the island and the smell of cooking from his breakfast that morning. Dominic’s jaw dropped.

“ _This_ is your kitchen?” Matthew nodded with a smile, stroking the smooth top of the island and letting his fingers trail over the chrome drawer handles.

“I’m very proud of it.”

“I can see why.” Dominic stepped in after Matthew, hearing his shoes tap quietly on the floor, He looked behind him to see that he had left dirty footprints on the bright floor and looked away quickly, hoping Matthew wouldn’t notice.

Next to the oven, where he kept his utensils so that they would be reachable from all areas of the kitchen, the knives were kept in the wooden block. He had several different knives of all shapes and sizes, from the tiniest fruit knife to something that would be worthy of a butcher, almost a foot long and glinting in the light streaming through the window. Matthew pulled one from the block, spinning it in his hands as he observed it in the sunlight, testing its weight when he gripped the handle. He then handed it to Dominic and stepped back.

“Go on, then. You think you kill someone? Try.”

Dominic’s eyes flared wide as he gaped at Matthew, his heart leaping into his throat.

“I’m not killing you!” Matthew cackled.

“Of course not! Do you think I’d give you my knife to kill me with? Just pretend.”

“H-how?”

The knife didn’t look at home in Dominic’s hands, and he was almost clumsy with his movements as he swung it up to stare at his reflection in the metal. He didn’t recognise the man he saw, a monster staring back at him from within the knife. He wondered how the hell Matthew managed to cook with it without accidentally hurting himself or-God forbid-somebody else.

“Turn and face me.” Dominic obeyed, turning towards Matthew so that their bodies were almost mirroring each other. Matthew took another step back. “Okay, now grip the knife and just pretend like you’re going to kill me. But don’t actually do it, of course.”

Dominic stared uneasily at the knife, his stomach squeezing itself as he squirmed on the spot.

“Tell me how?”

“I’m not going to tell you how to kill someone, Dominic! The whole point of the exercise is to figure out whether you’re capable of doing it yourself. You were trying to prove me wrong, weren’t you? Have you changed your mind, now?”

Matthew’s taunt did the trick. Dominic rocked back and forth on his heels, steeling himself as he rethought what he had said. He had been so sure he killed that girl, so sure when he looked into her eyes that he’d seen them before, yet he had no recollection. He somehow knew that the killer was eating their insides, yet nobody had told him this, nobody had even suggested it before he brought it up. What had he had for dinner that night, or for breakfast the morning after he killed her?

Was he the killer or not?

Could he really kill a man?

He looked up from hid reflection in the knife and stared into Matthew’s eyes, wishing he knew what was going on behind them.

“Are you afraid, Dominic?” he whispered.

“No. I’m not afraid.”

He saw the small body, tense with anticipation, fingers curled into tight fists and jaw set as he waited for Dominic. Matthew knew that Dominic was going to prove him wrong. He was waiting for Dominic to prove him wrong, just so he could be proven right. And when he looked into those eyes, the same chrome as the knife held steadily in his hands, he knew. Dominic was not the murderer, but he could be, and he would be.

“Do it.”

The phrase struck Dominic and he was suddenly transported back to his bedroom, Matthew straddling his torso, skin pressed against skin as he whispered, “Do it.”

Dominic’s fist snapped forward, plunging the knife through the air as it whipped through the tension between them, the sharp point barely brushing Matthew’s chest.  The blonde let out his held breath in a long huff, his hand still holding the knife firmly, the point still tickling Matthew’s skin. The brunette watched him with a small smile, his palms open and facing the ceiling.

“I suppose you were right.”

“I was.”

Dominic slowly let the knife drop, walking towards Matthew, who remained in place. His posture didn’t change, even as the point of the knife fell away from him. Dominic was right in front of him, then, and he pressed two fingers on Matthew’s neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. His eyebrows rose imperceptibly when he realised that his heartbeat was relaxed, as though he hadn’t just been held at knifepoint.

“You really didn’t think I’d be able to kill someone?” Matthew shook his head as he lied, suddenly hyper-aware of Dominic’s closeness. A ripple of excitement raced through his veins, burning up his synapses as he watched Dominic’s lips move. “I could do it.”

“But you won’t.”

“No.”

He leaned down, closing the boundary between the two and pressing his lips to Matthew’s. The psychiatrist remained still, although his heartbeat fluttered beneath Dominic’s fingers. He hadn’t been with anybody else since Dominic, which was unusual for him, and feeling Dominic’s lips on his own was intoxicating. A war waged within him, one that asked him how willing he was to give up control just to feel Dominic totally, to feel whole.

“Matthew,” Dominic whispered, his breath tickling Matthew’s lips, so close that his words could almost be tasted. And they were sugar sweet, delicate candyfloss on the tip of his tongue. Matthew rolled onto his tiptoes and flung an arm over Dominic’s shoulder, grabbing a fistful of hair as he brought his face to his own, connecting them once again. Gasping breaths were shared between kisses, their lips sliding together as though made for that express purpose.

Dominic could feel the heat of Matthew’s body pressed so tightly against his own radiating through their clothes, his fingers massaging his scalp and tugging at his hair, teasing the strands as they slipped through the cracks. Pleasure crackled between them as Dominic stepped to the side, grabbing Matthew by the shoulders and pressing him against the fridge, pinning him there with his body. Matthew’s eyes shot open, the sudden change in events not unpleasant but a little more frightening than before. Who was in control now? He squirmed and felt the cool metal on his skin where his shirt rode up his back, tingles shooting through his body as he shuddered, letting his eyes fall shut again.

The first shift in movement came when Dominic rolled his hips slightly, Matthew gasping as his head lolled back and slammed into the metal, the contrast between the cold metal and Dominic’s warm fingers leaving him breathless. Everything he touched turned to sunlight, and Matthew could feel himself fizzling away to a ball of heat, Dom’s lips working over his own as his hands gripped his arms, gripped his hips, cupped his face.

“This is so wrong,” Dominic said when their lips broke apart for a breather, Matthew’s mouth finding his neck and latching on, the tangy taste of sweat attacking his tongue as he felt for his pulse again. “God, I don’t care anymore. What would you say if I fucked you here?”

“Oh, _God_ , yes,” Matthew moaned in reply, letting Dominic carry him across the room.

“Up, up!” They disconnected for the briefest of moments so that Matthew could hop up onto the island counter and wrap his legs around Dominic from there. He leaned back gradually, keeping Dominic in his grasp and taking him with him. “Why do you wear such fiddly clothes?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting this,” he laughed breathily, helping Dominic with the buttons of his shirt and shrugging it off, the dark black material falling to the floor, just as it had after killing the girl in the alley. He had been alone that night, but not today.

Dominic slid down his body, pushing Matthew further up the island so that his head was almost hanging off the other end. He kissed down his chest, the taut, pale skin trembling beneath his lips. Fingers prised his trousers open and Matthew wiggled his hips, kicking them off. They were flung across the room and ended up draped over the cooker, left and forgotten while the owner was otherwise occupied.

Within no time, the two were semi-naked, bare chests pressed together as they snogged furiously, the fire between them electrifying the air. Unused to being the submissive one in the pair, Matthew floundered about, wading through the feelings between them to tangle his hands in Dominic’s hair, letting the thoughts fall away as he laid himself out for inspection, Dominic’s lips traversing every inch of unblemished skin.

He squirmed on the counter as Dominic pulled their boxers away, peeling them off and letting them fall to the floor. Their bodies were joined from top to toe, not a single boundary between them, and all they could feel was heat and passion, both gasping for a release from everything weighing them down. Dominic’s sweaty palms slipped on the counter as he shifted, Matthew clinging to him and clutching his arms, digging his nails into the flesh of his skin, rolling his head back and exposing his throat. Lips were licked, sweaty skin tasted, names gasped as they were forgotten.

Dominic’s hands burned paths into pale skin, Matthew whimpering at his touch and gasping into his mouth, slowly rocking his hips to meet him in the middle. His dark hair curled at the ends where it was damp, sticking to the counter beneath his head as he rolled his shoulders back, hot skin leaving prints on the surface.

“Dominic,” he moaned wantonly, half-lidded azure eyes staring up at the blonde, his hair falling around his face and lit by the sunlight. “Fuck.” Whenever his eyes felt like they were about to fall shut, he reopened them so he could see every action, could watch Matthew’s face contort with pleasure when he moved like that. Matthew’s hands wrapped around his back, one stroking the damp hair at the nape of his neck, his fingers curling around possessively.

All of Dominic’s recent fantasies seemed to be coming true at once, and he wondered to himself whether his feelings towards Matthew might be a little more than an awkward crush post-night out. Seeing Matthew spread out beneath him, everything seemed to centre on that one moment. The man who believed he was a killer and the man who knew he was a killer held onto each other desperately, hands slipping on slick skin, and forgot about the world.

As the friction built, it became too much, and the perfect rhythm started to fail, jerky motions and scrabbling hands leading to a clumsiness that was a stark contrast to their earlier movements, fluidity morphing into pure, animalistic pleasure. A series of high-pitched gasps and moans fell from Matthew’s swollen lips, his head snapping back and hanging over the edge of the counter, his eyes tightly squeezing shut. A final cry melted into a screaming falsetto as he released, and Dominic collapsed onto him and thrust one last time, his open-mouthed silent shout letting Matthew take centre-stage.

The pair panted into the other’s skin, Matthew breathing a giggle as he let his hands relax on Dominic’s back, his fingers tracing the raised skin. Dominic rubbed his nose along Matthew’s collarbone, kissing the skin there and smiling.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he chuckled, the happiest he had been in weeks.

“Trust me; it was worth any punishment I could receive.” Dominic rolled his eyes.

“You’re shameless.” Matthew flicked his fingers against Dominic’s back before letting his hands fall, allowing the skin to breathe.

“Mm, yes, I am.”

 Matthew’s heartbeat calmed first, returned to a steady pace as he closed his eyes and took in the scent of sweat and Dominic’s shampoo. He was going to have to do a lot of cleaning after he had left, but that wasn’t a problem.

Dominic pulled himself away, wincing when his fingers touched the stickiness on his chest. Matthew snickered as he pulled a face, reaching over to the sink to rinse his hands.

“Um...could I possibly use your shower?” he asked, shy again now that he’d removed himself from the scene. Matthew was still sprawled out naked on the counter with his eyes closed and a relaxed smile on his face, looking as though he belonged there, and Dominic stood back to admire the sight. Matthew felt eyes on his body and cracked one eye open, looking over at Dominic with an amused smirk.

“Yeah, go ahead. It’s up the stairs, first door on the left.”

It was careless, and in that moment Matthew didn’t care. Lounging on the counter, he felt boneless and blissful. He knew that the spell would be broken as soon as he got up and he’d be Dominic’s perplexed psychiatrist again, hiding from everyone just to make sure that his covert efforts weren’t uncovered.

Dominic trudged up the stairs, taking in the frames that lined the walls like in the hallway, trailing the fingers of his right hand over the banister. He had pulled his boxers back on again and had the rest of his clothes bundled up and clutched in his left hand. Upstairs, all the doors were closed. He considered peeking in Matthew’s bedroom but knew that he would be caught immediately. Something about Matthew and the way he held himself struck Dominic, and he was sure the intelligent man would know the second something was odd.

Instead, he went straight to the bathroom, unsurprised but still enjoying taking in the glamour of the place. Each of the pure white tiles sparkled, the fluffy bath mat beneath his feet softer than his bedsheets at home. He curled his toes in it and smiled, a small glow still making its way through his body.

He pushed the shower curtain out of the way and poked his head into the shower, twisting some of the knobs and testing the water. He pulled off his boxers, dumping his clothes on the closed lid of the toilet and stepping in, feeling the warm water pooling around his feet. The streams of water pouring from the nozzle pounded his back, soothing the burn in his muscles from the strain of holding himself up over Matthew.

He tilted his head back, letting the water run down his face and wash the sweat away, rivulets trickling down his chest. His hand fumbled for some sort of body wash in the corner of the shower, his fingers finding a luxury scrub and shower gel made from fruits he hadn’t even heard of. He squeezed something into his palm and his eyes lit up, the gel smelling like Matthew’s skin before he was overcome. He rubbed some into his chest, eyes falling shut as he rinsed away the traces of his jog, layers of sweat and dirt disappearing down the drain with the dirty water.

After massaging his scalp and scrubbing himself clean, he stood under the water and let it soothe his aching muscles, inhaling the smell of Matthew’s wash stuff in the steam. Eventually, he flicked off the shower and stepped out onto the bath mat, pulling an overly fluffy towel from the heater and drying himself, wrapping himself in it as he unfolded his clothes. It almost felt like a crime to put on his usual T-shirt after coating himself in such luxury for the past fifteen minutes.

He opened the window to let the steaming remnants of his shower out and left the bathroom, throwing his towel in the washing bin and heading back downstairs. He sought out Matthew in the kitchen but the only traces he found were a set of sweaty handprints on the edge of the counter. He grinned and instead went searching in the study. Said room was also empty, and he stood in the middle of the large room with one arm wrapped around his torso.

He didn’t want to intrude on Matthew’s business and presumed he was just getting dressed in his bedroom, so instead he entertained himself in the study, walking alongside the bookshelves again and studying the titles. He pulled a weathered novel off the shelf and flipped through it, the pages do-eared and turned over in some place. He tsk-ed at Matthew’s lack of consideration for the book, having expected better of him, and peered inside the front cover. ‘Property of Matthew J Bellamy’ had been written in sloppy handwriting, the years taking their toll on the ink, and he could see where it had been pressed into the page opposite. How old was this book? Had Matthew used it when he was in school?

The man in question appeared in the doorway of the study, still wearing nothing but his tight black boxers and cocked his head at Dominic.

“What’s that?”

“Just a book.” Dominic replaced it hurriedly and stepped away from the bookcase, Matthew watching him curiously. “Um...”

He wasn’t sure whether to take his leave or stay and talk to Matthew. Were they going to continue from before they interrupted themselves? He didn’t particularly want to pretend to kill Mathew again, now that he was in a better state of mind.

“Right, yes,” Matthew jumped, heading over to his desk. He picked up a credit card-sized item from his desk and twirled it between his fingers, scanning it and scratching away some dirt.

“What’s that?” Dominic asked, moving towards the desk.

“A safety kit. Survivor’s essentials and all that. It’s supposed to be everything you need to survive on your own in the wild, although I’m not sure entirely how useful it would be.”

“You planning on running away into the forest any time soon? Your house is too lovely to be abandoned!”

“No, no, it’s just for emergencies. I’ve done my reading, as you know.” Matthew pulled a thin stick from within the card and held it towards Dominic. Dominic took the tiny pen in his hands and couldn’t help but smile at something so small. He bent down over the desk, taking the first piece of paper he saw, and drew a little smiley face with it in the corner of the sheet. Matthew slammed his hands down on the table suddenly, his face alive with energy, and Dominic looked up, startled by the sudden loud noise.

“Dominic! Would you do something for me?” He nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes with intrigue. Matthew slipped into the seat and assumed his professional position, the impact reduced by his bare chest behind the wood. “Could you draw me something?”

“Um, okay? I’m not very good,” he laughed quietly.

“That’s fine, it doesn’t need to be perfect. Just draw me a flower or something.”

“A flower?” Even as he questioned it, he began to draw the lines for the stem.

“Five petals, please.” It seemed oddly specific, but Dominic did as he was told, the tiny pin slipping slightly between his fingers as he drew the veins in the leaves. He then handed it back to Matthew.

“Does that satisfy you?”

“I like your detail.” Dom chuckled loudly.

“I don’t understand what this is supposed to achieve. Are you going to stick it to your fridge with a little magnet or something?” If that had come from anybody else, Matthew would have skinned them alive. For Dominic, however, it was just a roll of his eyes.

“If I tell you, it will be easier for you to mess it up.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Do you ever stop asking questions? I was half expecting you to start asking me stuff when your dick was last up my arse.” Dominic’s cheeks coloured a violent red and he looked away, horrified at how blunt Matthew could be. The smaller man giggled shrilly. “You know I’m only getting you back for the magnet, Dominic.”

“We should talk about that, though.”

“Why? Did we talk about it last time?” Dominic shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether it would appear normal to suddenly sit down mid-conversation and wishing he’d just taken the chair in the first place. He averted his eyes from Matthew’s bare chest.

“Last time was rather difficult. We weren’t doctor and patient back then, just two men looking for a shag.”

“And now we’re two men who’re attracted to each other and were looking for a shag. In fact, I’m still looking, but I suppose you showered and meant it, right?”

Dominic ran a hand over his face, groaning to himself. He would have thought that Matthew would understand, knowing that he could be under threat if this got out somehow. What if somebody had seen through the window?

“I just feel like...that probably shouldn’t happen again.” Matthew pouted childishly.

“But it was good! Wasn’t it good?”

“Well, yeah,” Dominic conceded, admitting, “alright, it was really good,” and ignoring Matthew’s proud grin. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t wrong, though.”

“Why does it have to be wrong? Who made up that rule? It’s not like it affects your therapy at all. In fact, the only thing I’d say a more intimate relationship would change is trust. You’re more likely to open up to me if you know me and I know you.” Dominic huffed.

“You’re not worried at all?” Matthew sat up again and moved from around the desk towards Dominic, leaning against it and mirroring the blonde.

“Nope. Because I’m not going to tell and neither are you, are you?”

“No, I guess not.” Matthew wrapped his arms around Dominic’s waist and rested his head on his broad shoulder, kissing his neck at his pulse point.

“So we’re safe. Nobody can get us for anything. I am an innocent man, and so are you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this has taken so long. I took a break over August and then starting 6th Form got to me, but I've finally got this out for you :) Oh and, if you know the song Animal by Neon Trees (a bit poppy but very catchy), that's a sort of theme song for this chapter. A little bit.

Matthew flipped through the recipe book he had resting on the shelf and tapped one finger on his bottom lip, drumming out a pattern as he searched for the perfect meals. It had been a _long time_ since he'd thrown a dinner party, and a celebration of his achievements was definitely in order. Not that the guests would know what they were celebrating, but that was all the more fun for him.

He selected a few of his favourite, most intricate meals, and then began to ponder how he would go about procuring the ingredients. Clearly he would need to be going out more, but he knew that he would have to be careful. He could sense suspicion hanging over the town, and with Dominic's impromptu visits every couple of days, not being at home would spoil his alibi.

Although, he thought to himself with a grin, Dominic wasn't the only one to spontaneously turn up on somebody's doorstep. Only the other night, after he'd struggled through five appointments- the final one being with an incredibly irritating client who was convinced they had multiple personality disorder, when in fact they did not- he'd been exhausted and in need of some healthy stress-relief. He pulled his tie out of his collar, loosened the top two buttons of his pure white shirt and marched over to Dominic's place and rapped on the door, leaning casually against the wall. He could see Dom's silhouette through the glass and raised his eyebrows as the door cracked open.

A familiar face peered out, wide grey eyes swivelling around to meet Matthew's own. As soon as he recognised his guest, Dominic opened the door a little wider so that he was stood in the doorway.

"Dr Bellamy! I didn't expect to see you here," he exclaimed, voice jumping an octave with surprise. Matthew took in his appearance, and his bleary eyes and dishevelled hair gave him away. Dominic hadn't gone back to work, just as he was told to, but it was wrecking him on the inside.

"Ah-ah, Dominic, it's Matthew, remember," he purred, pushing the door open so that he could step inside the flat again, noticing it was even messier than the first time he had visited. As he saw Dominic was about to protest, he held up a finger and added, "We're out of work times. We're not in my office. Right now, we're simply...friends."

"Right." Matthew paced around the room, brushing his fingers over the surface of the cabinet, and Dominic leant against the table, watching him carefully. "So, do you want a drink or something?" Matthew shook his head. "What exactly are you doing here? Not that I don't want you here, because it's a lovely surprise," he hastened to add, cheeks colouring as Matthew grinned wickedly, "but I'm just curious. There isn't much of interest in my flat."

"When _you’re_ in your flat, Dominic, there is plenty of interest," Matthew drawled, prowling up to Dominic and slinging one arm around his shoulders, the other coming to fall on his hip as he started to drag him backwards. "And," his eyes twinkled mischievously as they passed the bedroom threshold. He lowered his voice to a whisper, his lips just brushing Dominic's earlobe, "I was looking for a buggering, and I think you're the best person for the job."

Lying in bed a little while later, Dominic was idly playing with Matthew's hair, the smaller man relaxing with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed.

"You look peaceful, here, in my bed," Dominic remarked softly, taking in the way Matthew's eyelashes fell on his cheekbones. His nose crinkled a little bit as his lips turned up in the corners, and he giggled.

"And do I look like I belong in your bed? Because I feel like I do."

 "Indeed, you do seem to make it a brighter place. Although I don't doubt that your bed is far superior to mine."

"Mm, you'd be right about that. We should try it out some time. Make sure that we get full use out of it. I think you'd like it. It's all fluffy pillows and clean duvets. They smell like me." Matthew winked and giggled, Dominic pressing a hand to his lips to mask his smile.

"Anyway, I was wondering about something," Matthew began, wetting his lips as Dominic looked over at him with a curious tilt to his head. “I’m thinking about hosting a dinner party soon, and I was wondering if you might want to turn up. There isn’t a fixed date, yet, but I was getting a bit lonely all by myself,” Matthew watched Dominic’s reaction closely, able to see the surprise flicker across his face as his lips curled up into a smile, most probably at the fact he was being invited on an evening out, before they turned down into a nervous frown.

“Who else is going to be there?” he asked quietly. “I don’t know of any of your friends.”

“Just various people I’ve known over the years,” Matthew said, waving his hand in the air absently as he glossed over the list running through his head. “A few people I studied with, friends from my childhood, etcetera.” Dominic shifted on the bed, wringing his hands together as his lips twitched. “What’s the matter?”

“Always so perceptive,” Dominic murmured, Matthew biting the inside of his cheek as he laughed internally, knowing that anybody could’ve been able to see Dominic’s nerves. His anxiety was almost palpable, and he wasn’t doing a very good job at masking his fears. “I just think that I would feel...out of place, you know?” Matthew shook his head, his eyebrows drawn and the skin between them pinched in a frown. Dominic sighed, the air rushing out of his lungs as he pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for the explanation he had been hoping not to give. “Well, if your friends are anything like you, I think that I’d be unwelcome.”

“You know that you’re always welcome into my home, don’t you, Dominic?” Matthew told him, hand reaching out to stroke his forearm as he lied through his teeth. “Didn’t you allow me into yours so graciously? Who would I be if I didn’t return the favour?”

“I guess.”

“And besides, you make it a more interesting place. I couldn’t bear just eating dinner with a bunch of people exactly like me. I might as well talk to myself if I wanted to do that.” Dom cracked a smile and Matthew leant on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist in what he assumed was a comforting gesture. Dominic leant into his touch, letting his weight slip sideways.

“You’re sure you want me there? I don’t really know much about fancy parties.” Matthew laughed lightly.

“That’s alright. If you’re really desperate, I could give you a few tips beforehand, but I’m sure you’ll do absolutely fine. You have a natural grace, you know.” _Or at least you did,_ he mused, _before I got there. Funny._ Dominic’s cheeks heated at the compliment and he ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. Matthew noticed the slight tremor but didn’t mention it, instead closing his eyes and listening to the sound of Dominic breathing beside him.

Now, a few days later, Matthew lifted the mug of coffee to his lips as he pored over the recipe cards and his lips curled into a slight smile as he thought over what Dominic would like best. Would he serve him something fancy, just so that he could see the admiration play across his features in the shadows of the dining room? Would he perhaps give him something he was familiar with but add a twist to it, knowing that he would forever be looking for that special ingredient to make his own but never find it? He had a knack for making people come back for more.

He spent the rest of his day idly entertaining fantasies about Dominic in a suit, sitting at the table and chatting with the other guests, neatly carving the meat on his plate, blissfully unaware of what he was eating. How would Dominic react, he wondered, if he knew just who it was? Would he even be that disturbed now that the madness was starting to swallow him whole?

Dominic, meanwhile, had seen improvements in his daily life, and he was heading back to work so see if his boss would take him. His lack of dissociation and trances in the past week or so, as well as the mysterious absence of the serial killer in the newspapers, led to a bright smile that morning. As he pushed open the door to the offices, his boss noticed him from the other side of the room. He rushed over immediately.

“Dominic!” he greeted him, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and raising his eyebrows. “You’re back!”

“Indeed, I am, if you’ll take me,” Dominic replied, holding his hands out wide as he waited for his acceptance.

“Of course I will, you know that. You’re my best worker.” Dominic beamed, allowing himself to be lead to his working space. “I’m glad to see you’re back and on your feet again. Was getting worried that I’d lost you there.”

“You know that I’d always come back. I did what you said and got some rest, and now I’m getting better again.” He nodded, conviction racing through his veins with each beat of his heart. It wouldn’t be that hard, would it? With his sessions with Dr Bellamy and a new found motivation, he was sure to be right as rain in no time.

Although, as he looked over at his boss and noticed a few storm clouds gathering in his eyes, he remembered why he’d been sent out in the first place and the fear that had forced its way into his bloodstream at the sound of the man’s roar. He shook himself, literally and figuratively, and sat down in his desk chair. He was not going to be intimidated by silly nightmares and delusions again.

Dominic remained seated for the rest of the day, just like every other worker in the town, tapping away on a keyboard and occasionally making notes on the pad beside him. He liked to back up his work so he could take it home, and because he didn’t entirely trust computers. He didn’t understand them very much, and although he had to adjust due to his profession and its constant need for computer usage, he tried his best to make it through the day without having a minor breakdown about how to use the damn programs.

However, that was on a normal day. And, no matter what he told himself, Dominic wasn’t exactly back to his actual self. Even as he trudged through the day, completing menial tasks and occasionally peering out at the other workers to make sure he was on track, a queasy feeling that he couldn’t shake off settled in his stomach. He ignored the strange flickering in the corner of his eye, blocked out the hissing from behind him and pretended that everything was normal with such determination that he began to believe it, forgetting about the hellish few weeks he’d experienced and acting just as he had always done. There was a monster trying to crawl its way out of the computer screen but he paid no attention to it, devoting his time and effort to writing everything done on his notepad, even if he had to go over each word twice just to give him an excuse not to look back at the computer screen.

When the day was over, he packed up his notepad and lunchbox into his bag, taking a last swig of his coffee and taking the mug to the kitchen. The woman there waved at him and greeted him with a cheery, “Welcome back, Dominic!” but he didn’t hear her. The wind was howling in his ears, blocking out everyone else so that he was trapped in his own maelstrom of thoughts, confined inside his own head. The woman frowned after him, knowing Dominic wasn’t usually the sort of person to reject a good chat, and then continued clearing up. She was too busy to check up on him, she reasoned, and he would probably be back to normal tomorrow. Perhaps he was just tired due to the sudden onslaught of work. It must have been a change after being home ill for the past week.

Dominic walked the same path home as he always used to, following the main road down to the alleyway and then turning left. The gravel crunched beneath his feet, the crackling audible even through the constant buzzing, and he paused, standing in the middle of the alleyway and letting the air wrap itself around him, filling him from the inside. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, allowing himself to truly feel the place and situation he was in. If he thought carefully enough, he could sense the small plants that lined the alleyway, despite not being able to see or feel them. He knew they were there, and as he pictured the scene in his mind, he could smell the earthy scent and he was home.

His foot shifted on the gravel and his eyes snapped open, the muffled strain on his hearing suddenly removed so that the clarity of the world around him nearly knocked him onto his knees. Just as he could sense the wind swirling around him, feel the gravel beneath his feet and the tree at the end of the alleyway and just as he knew his flat was only a few more steps away, he knew he wasn’t alone. He was so sure of it.

He wasn’t going to fall into the trap again. He whirled around, fists clenched as he prepared to face his attacker. If the killer wanted to come at him again, he would have him. He would pin him to the ground and he would yell for someone to come and find him and he would call the police and they would sort him out and they would put the killer in prison and he would be a hero of the town, not that pathetic guy who got attacked and went mad. He wanted it to happen so much, the adrenaline pumping through his veins melting the fuse inside him as he stalked forwards to the person who wasn’t there.

The wind rustled the leaves on the plants and he could hear the sound of cars going past on the main road, but his were the only feet parting the gravel, and he was the only one standing there. The sun was still above the rooftops, and he could see in the slight shadows that he was alone.

There wasn’t anyone there.

He swallowed, fists still tightened to painful levels as he took in the area. He was so sure somebody was there, hiding in the shadows. ‘Come out!’ he wanted to yell. ‘Come out and face me! I’m not scared of you!’

But just as he knew there was nobody there, he also knew that he was lying to himself.

When he slung his keys on the counter in his flat and stared out at the room before him, he sighed and rubbed his eyes, digging the heels of his palms in just to feel sensation again. He felt alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life, yet he was still so sure that his shadow was creeping up on him, watching him through the windows and waiting for the chance to strike.

He shook himself and poured a glass of water, pulling a face when he tasted it. It was too bland, just like his day had been, just like everything else in his life except that one thing which he knew he shouldn’t want but did. He glanced over at his bedroom from where he leant in the kitchen, able to picture Matthew lounging on the mattress, wrapped up in his sheets, a bare leg poking out from underneath as Dom padded back towards him and stroked the soft, pale skin between his shoulder blades. 

He really needed a drink.

He changed out of his work clothes into something more comfortable, shrugging his leather jacket on over his V-neck. The weather was still pleasantly warm, settling into the middle of summer so that the heat was no longer stifling but a comfort when he woke up in the morning. He felt the leather slide against his skin and smiled, stuffing his keys and some money into his trouser pockets before heading out.

He hadn’t returned to the club since the night of his attack, being too afraid to step out of his house on some days, let alone mingle with hundreds of strangers. Who knew who could be touching him? Had the killer actually followed him from the club that day? The questions had been plaguing him for weeks, but in his sudden burst of recklessness, he found himself pushing open the door and heading for the bar, ordering the strongest drink possible. He wanted to get the buzz in his veins as soon as possible, and he knew exactly what would get him to relax.

When the tangy taste hit his tongue, he knew he was done for, and he grinned to himself, planning a night of decadence and fun. He rested against the wall, the glass clasped in one hand, and scanned the other patrons, eyes tracing over skin and legs and long hair and smoky eyes in the dimness of the room. He downed the rest of his drink, sliding the glass back down the counter and pushing his way into the crowd, an unfamiliar song with irregular beats and too much synthesiser pulsing through the club and taking him along with it.

He found himself pressed against a girl who didn’t even look of age and grinned when he caught her eyeing him up, able to feel her eyes roving over him. He winked at her and she rested her arms on his shoulders, swaying slowly as she took a step towards him with each beat. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman, and he was ready to let loose and enjoy the night just like any other guy.

Just like another guy he’d noticed across the room.

As he watched, Matthew leaned in to the girl, whispering something in her ear. Dominic could see from afar that her laughter was false, but Matthew giggled along with her anyhow, one arm resting on her waist and the other clutching the bar behind him. He raised an eyebrow and she nodded, her face disappearing behind a curtain of silky black hair. Dominic’s mouth fell open as he stared, and he was jolted back to his situation by a tug on his arm. He turned to face the girl, and irritated frown pinching her brow and pursing her lips. He bit his lip and reluctantly placed his hands on her hips, the crackling in his veins fizzling down to a low simmer as he watched Matthew’s hips turn, snaking towards him, pulling his catch off the stool and onto the floor, the pair dancing closer than anybody else in the room.

The song switched to something even louder, Dominic’s heart pounding in time with the reverberation in his stomach, a sickness sinking in his core. He peered over the girl’s head and watched as Matthew pressed a kiss to the girl’s cheek, his hand wrapped around her wrist as he dragged her away from the mass and towards the door. He threw some cash onto the bar-too much, by the looks of it-and disappeared through the door. Dominic watched with his lips parted, standing stock still in the middle of the crowd as he realised exactly what was going on.

A sharp stinging on the left side of his face finally drew his eyes away from the door, and he spun around to see the girl stalking away from him, fuming as she ordered another drink from the bar. He bit his lip, an apology dying on his lips as he excused himself from the crowd, rubbing his sore cheek and sitting down in a booth. The simmer died out with a muted ‘pop’ and he sighed glumly, readjusting his jacket as he realised his night wasn’t going to go exactly to plan.

Why was he so bothered that Matthew had gone home with someone else? He kept asking himself the same question as he paid for his drinks and headed out, alone, by himself yet again. He wasn’t even half as drunk as he had wanted to be, and he’d ended up just as he’d started out, except with an adding sinking sensation as one thing abruptly became clear: he’d grown too attached to Dr Bellamy.

As if he needed any more problems on his plate.

He trudged home, his shoulders hunched as he retraced his steps from only an hour ago. It was still an acceptable hour of night, and he could see lights in people’s windows and the reflection of the TV screen through the curtains. _Summer must be perfect for criminals_ , he thought to himself, raising an eyebrow at how many cars he saw with their windows wide open. All it would take was a desperate guy to shove their hand through the window, snip the wires and start the car, and it would be lost forever.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, able to see the aerial sticking up from his roof now that he was close, and asked himself once more why Matthew wasn’t satisfied with just him. They’d been together a few times now, and Matthew had always been the one to urge him into it. He was the one who had told him not to worry about work/play boundaries, so why would he bother unless he really wanted it? Dominic was tired of the little man running circles through his head, confused as to how somebody so small could hold so much power over him. It was stupid, and it was sickening, and he was almost completely sure he’d run out of time to back out. It was either acceptance now, or denial for the rest of his life.

He unlocked his door and stood in his hallway yet again, realising that this seemed to be his only hobby, the only thing he could say he’d done with his day. When had he reduced himself to this state of being instead of living?

He walked into the bedroom, throwing the jacket over the bed and kicking off his shoes. As his skin was exposed to the air, however, he froze, the hairs on his arms rising as he turned around in a circle. Something felt different, and he’d learnt his lesson from not trusting his instincts. He shuddered at the chillness of the air, so different to the warmth of the outside, and paced the length of his room, peering at everything to check what had been disturbed. He was so sure that somebody had been in here; he could almost smell their presence. There was something about this room that screamed ‘intruder alert!’, and he was determined to figure out what it was.

Muttering, “Come on, Dominic,” to encourage himself, he scouted the room, checking and double checking everything he owned. What had the room looked like when he left the house? What was it that made it feel so different? There were fingerprints on the closed window, but as he stretched out his hand and pressed it against the glass, he knew they were his own. He pressed his forehead against the window, the coolness on his skin calming him down as condensation formed around him. He poked it, watching his fingertip drag through the moisture collected there, and groaned to himself.

There was nobody here. Again. That was the second time within a matter of hours he’d done that, and he knew that his paranoia was getting out of hand. He knew that he wasn’t better, no matter what he told his boss, and he knew that he was still afraid, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself.

The most disturbing thing of all was that he didn’t mind, because as long as he was sick, he would still have his Saturday morning sessions with Dr Bellamy. And that was enough to brighten anyone’s week.

As he sat wrapped up in bed later that night, a mug of tea clasped in his hands and the lights turned down low, he swore he caught a glint of something metal on the floor in the hallway, but his eyes drooped and he only just managed to put the mug down before he slipped into sleep. The bent hairgrip on the floor by the door went unnoticed.  


End file.
